Traditional Recipes for Disaster
by Erestor
Summary: When Elrond tries to trick Glorfindel and Erestor into working together, he provides them with a common enemy: himself. How can so many things go wrong in one day? Cowritten with Ithiliel Silverquill.
1. Elrond's Unwelcome Assignment

**Traditional Recipes for Disaster**

**by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor **

**Disclaimer: **Neither of us owns _Lord of the Rings _or anything pertaining to it. This story was written for entertainment only.

Updates should be fairly regular in their occurrence. Many thanks to **Ithiliel Silverquill** for writing this with me, and many thanks to **MithrilSide** for illustrating it.

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**CHAPTER ONE**

**Glorfindel.**

There is something strange about Lord Elrond's door. Not that I've really taken the time to inspect this door, but as I've passed it on previous occasions, I've experienced a vague feeling of unease. At the moment, I want to delay entering Elrond's study for as long as possible, so I'm carefully wasting my time by examining this door.

While I stare at the woodwork, I ponder over why Lord Elrond could want me. I'm fairly certain that I haven't done anything horribly disruptive in the past few days, and I've even managed to complete the report he told me to write two months ago. What more could he ask of me, his wonderful, charming, and exuberant friend and advisor? I hope he isn't planning to lecture me, at great length, about some trivial thing – last time he wanted to tell me about the influence of mint tea on Elvish society. I don't think I can stand another discourse of that sort.

Ah, I see what's wrong with this door. There are teeth marks along the bottom of it. I suppose the twins must have been the cause of that.

There is no longer a reason for me to stand in the hallway, so I sigh and knock on the chewed door. Lord Elrond invites me to enter, and I do so.

Being a warrior has taught me to expect ambushes in the strangest places, Elrond's study included. I come in slowly, glancing around to make sure Elladan and Elrohir aren't crouched behind a vase preparing to tackle me. Elrond is sitting at his desk. He has a slightly guilty look on his face, but it doesn't worry me. Lord Elrond is always finding things to feel guilty about.

I pause. Standing next to Lord Elrond's desk is Erestor. He is clad in dark blue and black as usual and his eyes are narrowed fractionally, also as usual. Evidently he is not delighted to see me. Big surprise. If I was a grumpy and paranoid advisor, I wouldn't be delighted to see me either. Grumpy, paranoid advisors find me very annoying.

Erestor doesn't like me, and that's that. Our first meeting was, of course, quite disastrous. I had heard of the arrival of Lord Erestor to Imladris, but I had never actually met him, since I had been scouting in the wilds for some time. I returned to the last Homely House feeling rather jumpy, and fell asleep at my desk the next day, so tired was I. Unfortunately, it wasn't actually _my_ desk at which I was resting, but Lord Erestor's. No one had informed me of this. Erestor wandered into the room and I sensed a hostile presence, woke up, and threw the thing that came most readily to hand. Erestor managed to duck the object (which was a pot of ink, red in color) and I managed to wake up, realizing that the hostile presence had just become even more hostile. Elrond entered the room, saw the red ink covering his advisor, and thought that Erestor had sustained some horrific injury. He was ready to haul Erestor to the infirmary, but I stopped laughing and confessed my guilt, adding (perhaps facetiously) that it was a good thing Erestor did not keep axes by his desk.

Since that incident, Erestor and I have been happiest when avoiding each other, but occasionally some form of confrontation will arise, and we quarrel. Such arguments tend to be short and fierce, and usually end in a compromise, neither of us satisfied and both of us frustrated.

I am by nature a cheerful Elf, blessed with a buoyant nature, quite ready to admit my faults and just as ready to forgive others for theirs. For years I have gone to great lengths to be likeable and all the Elves of Imladris think I'm wonderful. All but one. Erestor is unusual because he dislikes me, resents me, or considers me an idiot. Perhaps all three.

I try not to think about him much, but ignoring him does not make him disappear. Pity.

I smile at him, watch him withdraw into himself even more, and turn to Elrond with bow. "You wanted me for something, Lord Elrond?"

"Yes, Glorfindel," says the peredhel, rummaging through the papers at his desk. "Will you look for a book for me?"

"A book?" I echo, slightly surprised by the unusual request. "What book?"

"_Traditional Recipes from Nargothrond_," replies Elrond. He continues to rummage. "I asked Erestor about it, but he says he has never heard of such a compilation."

Erestor shifts slightly. He is staring at the floor. Don't want to look at me, Erestor? Would you prefer to skulk in the library? I'm sure that admitting you've never heard of this book was very hard for you.

This whole situation is very strange.

"How can you expect me to find this book if Lord Erestor has never heard of it?" I ask, smiling. "I rarely read. I know very little of books. And. . ." I pause, before continuing. ". . ._Recipes from Nargothrond_? What sort of book is that?"

Elrond frowns at me. "Now, Glorfindel," he says, "I know that you want to help me in every possible way."

"Of course." _I'd love to help in every possible way, Lord Elrond, but finding books is a little beneath me, don't you think? Why don't you get Erestor to do it? _

My frantic attempt to communicate telepathically with Lord Elrond fails once more. Elrond says, "You can help me by finding this book. I want it most urgently. Lord Erestor has offered to assist you."

Erestor and I look at each other. The advisor seems harassed, but that's not unusual. He always seems harassed. Perhaps that's because every time I see him, I'm _near_ him. I suspect that my very presence is harassing.

I decide to be friendly. Being friendly is the sort of thing that will drive Erestor crazy. He hates friendliness, and I enjoy being politely obnoxious like this.

"Lord Erestor," say I, bowing extravagantly. "How kind of you to aid me in my search! I'm sure that we'll have a lovely time!"

Erestor glares at me. Apparently he thinks I am teasing him. I am.

I glance at Elrond. He's smiling, happy that everything is going well. For an Elf-Lord, he is terribly unobservant. Erestor obviously wants to strangle me. Anyway, I know very well that the day Erestor volunteers to help me with something is the day I'm told to jump off a cliff. He'll help with _that _for sure.

"So lead on, good Elf," I continue. "Take me to the library! We'll find the book in no time." I'm being rather mean, surprising even myself. I try to make amends for my behavior by smiling at him as genuinely as possible. His eyes narrow even more.

Oh well, that didn't work.

There is something about Erestor that squashes all my good will and makes me rather cruel and sarcastic. I can't help it, honestly. His reaction to teasing is always so satisfying. And I didn't ask to look for the book with him. This is all Lord Elrond's fault!

I realize that mocking Erestor will most definitely lead to problems. It might make looking for this book difficult. I shall probably make him loathe me even more. I'll have to be nice, and not get on his nerves, and I can't make fun of him, not even lightly.

Why do I care about Erestor's feelings? Erestor is about as talkative as a piece of furniture, and his opinion of me certainly doesn't matter.

I wonder what he's thinking.

**Erestor.**

I have a number of favorite places here in Imladris. I like my study, because all of my books and papers are right there whenever I need them. I like the kitchen, because a warm kettle is always there whenever I need a cup of mint tea. I like my chamber, because it is far enough from everyone else's chambers that if I feel the need to pace around the room and mumble incoherently to myself, no one can see me and look at me as if I am insane. I love the library best of all, because I can spend hours on end among the dusty old volumes and forget about time itself.

However, the introduction of one single thing can ruin any enjoyment I get out of any of these places. His name is Glorfindel. Right now, he is about to ruin the library.

I have never liked Glorfindel from the moment I laid eyes on him. There is something about even the way he carries himself that grates on my nerves. He walks around as if he owns all of Arda—as if Manwë has given him the kingship of Middle-earth instead of the command to serve and protect. He seems especially fond of annoying me. I do not know if he does it on purpose, or if he is just obnoxious by nature, but I can never keep up a good mood when I am around him. The only thing about it that is satisfying is that he can never keep up a good mood around me either.

Which is why neither of us are in a good mood as we head to the library. I am having what could possibly be called the worst day of my life—the morning has not gone well, as I was unable to find the report I needed in the war-zone loosely referred to as Glorfindel's study. Then I was the victim of one of Elladan's merciless pranks—from now on, I will look up before I walk through a door left ajar. Then when Lord Elrond called me into his study to request a specific book, I was forced to stare at him as if he was speaking another language. Of course, no proper bad day rights itself at noon—now Lord Elrond has seen fit to add insult to injury and torment me with Glorfindel himself for the remainder of the day.

I am tempted to wait until Elrond is out of earshot and then lock Glorfindel in the hall closet. He could search that area thoroughly, and I could search the rest of Imladris in peace. The only problem would be the fact that, were I to try to shove Glorfindel anywhere, he would shove me instead, since he is a Balrog-slayer and I am a scholar. _I_ would be the one looking for an old book among the floor polish and dusting-rags. So that idea will not work.

I push open the doors to the library. Sunlight is filtering in through the huge windows, throwing rich golden light on the tall shelves of books. Leather-bound volumes sit comfortably on the shelves like old familiar friends. Tattered manuscripts lie jumbled together, as if calling out to me to discover their secrets before they crumble to dust. The air is hushed and reverent.

"Ai Ilúvatar!" gasps Glorfindel, stepping up behind me and ruining the mood, as usual. "How in Valinor are we supposed to find one book in here?"

I valiantly resist the urge to slap him. "You take that side," I say, gesturing to the left half of the library. "I will take the other. If you find the book, let me know." Hopefully my directions are simple enough that he can understand them.

He cocks his birdlike head to one side. There is a mischievous light in his eyes. I, just like the rest of Imladris, have learned to fear that look. "What if _I _would rather search the right side?"

I glare at him and remind myself to remain calm. Books are not projectiles, nor do I intend to use them as such. No matter how much he annoys me, I refuse to disgrace a book by causing it to come into contact with the back of his conceited golden head. "You are not. _I _am searching the right side. You may search the left side. If you want to help, do something helpful for a change."

We are both ignoring the fact that neither one of us volunteered for anything. Well… on second thought, I was so flustered when I realized Elrond was asking for a book I did not know existed that I might have volunteered. But I had no idea it would involve Glorfindel. I certainly did not offer to help him!

Glorfindel laughs and walks off. At last. Even the air seems so much fresher and lighter when he is not around to breathe it.

I walk up to the first shelf and begin examining titles. _Essays in Khuzdul_… _History of the Laiquendi_… _The Royal Family of Doriath_… but no _Recipes from Nargothrond_. I cannot help but wonder about one thing: how do we have a recipe book from Nargothrond? That kingdom was destroyed by the dragon Glaurung! It does not make sense… but then, life seldom does. If Elrond says it exists, I must take him at his word. Though I cannot fathom what Elrond wants with a recipe book. A strange request indeed. Lady Celebrían never does any cooking, and the cook Meretheryn has her own dragon's hoard of recipes.

Suddenly one of the titles catches my eye: _The Lost Writings of Nolendil of Sirion_. I have been looking for this book for so long! There was a rumor spreading about that Elrond had a copy of Nolendil's writings, but I had scarcely dared to hope that it was true. There is something I have wanted to look up in this book for a very long time…

I slide the thick volume off of the shelf and open it. I can immediately smell one of my favorite scents in Middle-earth: the musty smell of an old dust-covered book. No one can ever understand why I love that smell, but I do. I take a moment to just breathe it in before I open my eyes and continue looking for the fact I have been hoping to find.

Nolendil was an excellent writer. He could write about the dullest subject and turn it into something completely fascinating. No matter where in his book one begins reading, it is very easy to be completely absorbed in seconds. Very easy… indeed…

Thirty minutes later, I am interrupted in the middle of a discourse concerning the effect of rats on the grain harvest by the sound of someone clearing his throat behind me.

I turn around and look up right into Glorfindel's face. His expression is somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "Are you enjoying yourself, Lord Erestor?" he says.

I scowl at him. If he thinks I am enjoying myself, why is he interrupting me?But then, that is the question I ponder whenever I see him. I am enjoying my life, why is he interrupting me?

He continues. "I'm sure that book is fascinating, but unless it contains recipes from Nargothrond, it won't be much help to Elrond."

"Oh, I am sure that this book would help Lord Elrond very much," I say, pointing to a page. "Look, here are several solutions for controlling rats."

His expression changes to one of confusion. "Rats? Imladris doesn't have a rat problem."

"Oh yes we do," I mutter.

TBC


	2. Pillars and Problems

**Traditional Recipes for Disaster**

**By Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor **

**Disclaimer: **Neither of us own _Lord of the Rings_ or anything pertaining to it. This story was written for entertainment only.

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**CHAPTER TWO **

**Glorfindel. **

I may not be a scholar, but I'm not an idiot, and I know that if Erestor scowls at me and mutters something about rats, he's probably implying something. I do not know why I decided not to tease Erestor, since obviously no matter what I do, he will dislike me anyway.

Erestor, if you want to be grouchy and mean all the time, I'll be oh-so-willing to provide you with a reason for being grouchy and mean, starting now.

First, I take the book from Erestor. The advisor is rather startled, but I pay him no heed. I glance at the page to which the book has been opened and my eyes widen slightly. Erestor wasn't joking. This book _is_ about rats. I gaze at the pictures of the rodents that entwine themselves in and out of the writing. I can't believe that he was enjoying reading about _rats_. That poor, poor Elf.

I look up. Erestor is glaring at me yet again. He really bothers me. I'm not out to ruin his life! At least, I _wasn't_ out to ruin his life. By now I'm having my doubts as to why I should try to be friendly.

"Lord Erestor," I say sweetly, "this is without a doubt the most uninteresting book in all Imladris. Evidently you are easily distracted."

I put the book on a shelf where he won't be able to reach it, unless he climbs on a table. Knowing Erestor, I doubt he will do something as sacrilegious as that. Then I say, brightly, "Now, do you remember what you were supposed to be looking for?"

If looks could kill, I would be a smoldering pile of ashes for the second time in my existence. I smile at him, wondering when he'll realize that finding the book as quickly as possible will put an end to this torture.

Erestor opens his mouth.

"Don't say anything that you'll regret later," I tell him. Then I go back to the shelves to the left of the library. They are dusty. They smell of old, dusty books. There's dust everywhere. Does Erestor actually like all this dust? It can't be healthy to inhale this all day. No wonder he's such a stuffy Elf.

I sneeze.

Oh Valar! Elves aren't meant to sneeze! I'm probably dying. . .oh dear. . .Erestor is sniggering. I scowl at him and sneeze again. And again. And again.

I feel very sorry for mortals.

Erestor, callous Elf that he is, apparently finds the sight of me sneezing myself to death very amusing. He has a rather wicked smile on his face. I suppose I've been irreverent when it comes to his precious library, but still, he might be a _little_ nicer.

I finally stop sneezing. My head hurts.

"It has been said that Nolendil discovered a remedy for sneezing," comments Erestor.

"Who's Nolendil?" I ask.

"He was the Elf who wrote the book you placed over there," says Erestor with a nod in the direction of the book that had the rats in it.

I grin, having recovered from my sneezing episode. "Yes, that does seem to be the kind of thing he'd write about." I make no move towards the volume, however. I am most certainly _not_ taking that book back down so that Erestor can get his hands on it again. A thought occurs to me. "Lord Erestor, I am gravely disappointed."

"Disappointed?" Is it wishful thinking on my part, or does Erestor look slightly worried? I should have thought of telling him this earlier.

"Yes. Gravely disappointed. What have you been doing all these past years? You hardly ever come out of the library. I had imagined that you were organizing the books or dusting or something." I'm not really sure what people do in libraries. Suffer, maybe. "But no," I continue, "this library is in a state of horrendous disrepair. We should be able to find this book. You have evidently lost it."

Erestor examines the bookshelf. Then he says, "I have done a great deal in this library, Lord Glorfindel, and I have most certainly not lost the book we are searching for."

"Oh?" I raise my eyebrows. "We've been looking for ages – at least, _I've_ been looking – and we have been unable to find this book. The library is cluttered. The book could be buried anywhere. So I would like to know what exactly you've done in this library."

Erestor is trembling. He must be furious. I just insulted his library. "At least I work!" he exclaims finally. "All you ever do is run around playing with your sword."

See? This Elf is no pitiable scholar. He can fight back. I am perfectly justified in waging war against him. All guilt I've ever felt about the way I treat him evaporates in an instant. "Lord Erestor, there are many things that you do not understand," I say gently, but venomously. "Warfare is one of these things."

Erestor somehow manages to contain himself, but he looks furious.

I speak on, "No doubt you feel as though you have a right to pass judgements on my profession, but in reality, you know very little about what I do. Hiding away in your books has not provided you with a viable grasp on reality."

For example, in reality, one can get seriously injured while fighting, and I've not heard of many people being hurt in a library. I think Erestor wants to be the first.

How did he manage to make me feel so angry?

I stride forward until I'm by the shelves on the right side of the room. "I'm done with my side," I say. "We might as well switch shelves."

He hates me. I know he must. The library was his last little domain, and I'm taking over it. Erestor gazes at me expressionlessly for a moment, and then turns and walks to the shelves on the other side of the room. I almost wish he'd snapped at me instead.

After a few more minutes of fruitless searching, I still cannot find _Traditional Recipes of Nargothrond_. I think that if I did find it, I would hurry to Lord Elrond, present it to him, and then go and eat dinner. . .I'm hungry.

Or what if. . .no, this doesn't bear thinking about. . .

What if Erestor found the wretched book first? He would gloat about it for ages. He would constantly remind me that he had found Lord Elrond's book before I had.

Or perhaps he wouldn't. Erestor doesn't really seem to be the gloating type. I can't remember seeing him being pleased or happy before, except that time when I wasn't looking where I was going and I walked into a door and practically broke my nose. Odd. . . Most Elves have something to be happy about. When it comes to Erestor, I keep expecting to catch him wringing his hands and saying, "Oh Valar, why me?"

I remind myself that every time I start feeling sorry for Erestor, he does something to make me feel annoyed with him again. So much about him irritates me, and I try to be kind to him, but I end up coming across as condescending or mocking or _mean_. I wish I could be less impulsive and thoughtless. I wish I understood him better.

**Erestor.**

I almost feel sorry for Glorfindel. Is not one of the first rules of combat "know your enemy"? I am no warrior, and I know that. He is at a distinct disadvantage. I know him well. He does not know me at all. For example, if he knew me, he would know that I have never had a problem with reaching books on the top shelf.

I wait until his back is turned and silently make my way to the shelf. I almost spoil it by laughing at him: so much for his being known as Imladris's finest warrior; he is not paying attention to what is going on behind him. If I was an orc, I could have—would have—killed him several times by now.

If he was paying attention to his surroundings, he might have noticed several elaborately carven pillars next to the shelves. He probably thinks they are only for decoration and architecture. I did myself, until one day I needed a book on the top shelf. Those pillars have a purpose. Only a desperate scholar would see that purpose, which is why they are strictly set aside for the use of desperate scholars such as myself who are—to put it politely—vertically challenged. At least compared to the likes of Glorfindel.

Climbing pillars is as easy as climbing trees. All I have to do is grab on, then slide up, using my knees to hold on. I easily reach the level of Nolendil's book, then with a quick motion I reach out and snatch it. Getting down is even easier than getting up.

Really, Glorfindel. I do not know how you survive in the wilds of Middle-earth. A pack of orcs could run up behind you and you would never know it until they had a scimitar in your back. You should pay more attention to what goes on around you.

I decide against reading _Nolendil_ further. I would enjoy this book a lot more beside my fireplace with a cup of mint tea, rather than in the library with Glorfindel when he is making himself an annoyance.

I scan the remaining shelves. There _is_ order in this library, whether Glorfindel the Incredibly Dense Vanya can see it or not. I would explain it to him, but I do not have the time and he does not have the mental capacity. And as for dusty… I happen to like the dust. It adds to the ancient feel of the room. If Glorfindel wants to see a messy room cleaned, he can go tidy his disgusting study and leave the library to me.

It is settled. The book is not in this library. Judging by the disgruntled look on Glorfindel's face, it is not on the right side, and I know the titles of all these books by heart. For once, I am eager to leave.

I walk up to Glorfindel. "I have searched thoroughly," I say, and enjoy watching him jump nearly five feet in the air. There, Glorfindel, that is what you get for not paying attention. "The book is not in this library. It must be somewhere else."

He scowls at me. "Are you so certain, Erestor? I don't know how you could say anything for certain about this musty old room."

I do not rise to the bait. I know he is just trying to be insulting. "I know my library, and I know the book is not here. We would be wasting our time if we were to linger here any longer."

He huffs. "Well, where are we supposed to find it, then?"

I try to restrain myself from rolling my eyes at him, but I am unsuccessful. "Lord Glorfindel, if I could give you an answer to that question, would I have spent the last hour searching the library?"

"You mean, spent the last half-hour searching the library, and the half-hour before that reading a book."

"You know what I mean." If he is trying to drive me to hit him with _Nolendil_, he is going about it the right way.

He shrugs. "I say we should take a break and have dinner, then look for the book later."

I raise my eyebrows. This is not what I was expecting… for once, I agree with Glorfindel. Something must be wrong with me. "Very well. If we take one hour for dinner, we can resume our search afterwards."

He smiles and nods, then notices the book I am carrying. "What do you have there? It isn't _Traditional Recipes from Nargothrond_, is it?"

My mouth falls open. "You think I would _lie_?" I sputter. "I told you the book was not in this library! What would be the purpose of my taking the book and then lying to you about it? I have never told anyone a lie in my life!"

He hesitates. "What book is it, then?"

I hold it up. I am strongly tempted to hit him with it. The _nerve_ of that insolent wretch! Accusing me to my face of being a liar! "_The Lost Writings of Nolendil of Sirion_."

His eyes grow wide. He looks up at the shelf, and then down at me. "How did you get that book? You didn't climb on a table, did you?"

I refuse to even dignify his question with an answer. I glare at him, then turn around and walk away.

TBC


	3. The Saga Continues

**Traditional Recipes for Disaster**

**by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor **

**Disclaimer: **Neither of us owns _Lord of the Rings _or anything pertaining to it. This story was written for entertainment only.

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**CHAPTER THREE**

**Glorfindel.**

I have been underestimating Erestor. In fact, _everyone_ has been underestimating Erestor. He may seem either pathetic or annoyed, depending on which time of day you encounter him, but he is apparently capable of interesting feats.

Like getting books down from high shelves, for example.

It is obvious that Erestor is not a defeatist, which makes him infinitely more interesting. I had always thought of him as a dismal, boring scholar. The oh-Valar-why-me type of Elf. He has just proved that he's something else. I may dislike him, but I must admit that he has surprised me. I could hear him shuffling about and assumed that he was industriously searching for _Traditional Recipes of Nargothrond_. Now it turns out that he was retrieving his beloved book from the upper shelves. I don't think I shall ever assume anything about him again.

I would dearly love to figure out how he got his book, but suddenly there is no time. For even as I stand, somewhat bemused, considering Erestor, I realize something.

One doesn't usually find recipe books in libraries. One finds them in kitchens. So it follows that if _Traditional Recipes_ is not in the library (and Erestor has assured me that it isn't) it must be in the kitchen.

Valar, I _am_ an idiot!

I sprint off in the direction of the kitchen, but Lord Elrond encounters me as I dash through a hall."Lord Glorfindel! There you are!" he says happily.

I halt, turning to face Lord Elrond, dazzling him with another one of my brilliant, clever replies. "Yes, here I am."

There really isn't time for this! It may occur to Erestor that recipe books belong in kitchens. I'm surprised that he hasn't thought of this already. He's more logical than I. Perhaps even as I stand here, Erestor is sneaking down to the kitchen, a grin on his face, delighted at having so cunningly tricked me. . .

"I was wondering if you and Erestor were making any headway."

"I'm sorry, Lord Elrond, but we have been unable to find your book." Grovel, grovel.

Elrond has the look of someone who wants to have a very long and boring conversation. I need to think up a good reason to get out of here.

"That's a pity," Elrond says. "Are you and Erestor getting along well?"

"Oh yes," I say, smiling. We haven't hurt each other yet. That's good. I don't plan on telling my lord that Erestor thinks I accused him of lying and left the library in a state of fury. I won't even tell Lord Elrond that Erestor spent half the time reading and the other half of the time trying to get his book back – after I took it from him.

Elrond beams at me. "I'm very glad. I have been worried about– "

Worried. I know how to get Lord Elrond to leave. I put a worried expression on my face and say, "Lord Elrond, you have reminded me of something. I am worried about Lord Erestor."

"Really? What's wrong with him?" Elrond looks at me anxiously.

_Lots_ of things are wrong with him. "He looked a bit peaky," I say, thinking fast. "One of your wonderful herbal mixtures would greatly revive him."

Elrond nods seriously. "Perhaps so," he says. "I'll go and find him."

Elrond walks away, still looking worried. Erestor _did_ look peaky, but I think my presence had a lot to do with that. I can't help but chuckle to myself as I dash to the kitchens. Even if Erestor thinks of looking there, Lord Elrond will find him and drag him away to the infirmary.

I have to find _Traditional Recipes_ before Erestor does.

I enter the kitchen and glance around. A woman comes over. I can never remember her name, but I do remember that she made me delicious tea and biscuits after I got my arm half chopped off in a battle a few decades ago. She'll be the perfect Elf to ask.

"Has Lord Erestor been in the kitchens recently?"

She shakes her head. "No, Lord Glorfindel. Not recently."

I sigh with relief. "Thank you," I say, ever the polite Elf-Lord. "Would you be so kind as to tell me where you keep your cookbooks?"

The wonderful woman shows me the place, I thank her profusely, and sit down to root through the heap of old books. At least these ones aren't dusty. Erestor could learn a lot from this woman.

I can't find Lord Elrond's book. For a moment I stare at the stack, and then I go through it again. I had managed to convince myself that the book would be here, and now that it isn't, I have no idea what to do next.

I suppose I could get dinner. Wouldn't do to die of starvation. Then Lord Elrond's book would never get found.

As I walk slowly to the dining hall, I ponder the problem. And once I start thinking about problems, I begin thinking about Erestor. His behavior in the library was very exasperating. He didn't even act as if finding the book was important. He just read most of the time.

I wonder if he knows where the book is? That would account for the way he acted. If he knew where the book was, he wouldn't have to assist me in looking for it. He could sit and read and watch me make a fool of myself. I know that Erestor loves watching me make a fool of myself. And sadly, I frequently entertain him in this way.

He was terribly offended when he thought I had insinuated that he was a liar, but maybe he was just worried that I'd work out. . .No. This is foolish thinking. Erestor may be many things that I don't like, but I doubt he's hiding the book. It would be pointless. He would want to please Lord Elrond, and thus finding _Traditional Recipes of Nargothrond_ would be high on his list of priorities.

Maybe he is easily distracted, like I said. Even I spent some time gazing dreamily into the distance and imagining all the other things I could have been doing, other than looking for Lord Elrond's impossible-to-find book.

**Erestor.**

As I walk down the hall, I cannot help but feel ashamed of myself. Perhaps screaming at Glorfindel and stomping out of the room was not the most brilliant idea I have ever had. Looking back, he did not exactly_ call_ me a liar anyway. I know he talks without thinking, and that was probably what happened.

He probably now thinks that I am unstable as well as pointless, which is a pity since I am neither. At least I would like to think so.

I am heading in the wrong direction to be going to the dining hall, so I decide to simply proceed to my room. I was not hungry anyway. Besides, Glorfindel will be there, and I do not want to be present when he tells all of his adherents the amusing story of me losing my temper at him.

Suddenly I see Lord Elrond walking down the hall in my direction. "Erestor!" he calls.

"Yes, milord?"

He stops and begins to look me over with a critical eye. "You look a bit pale. Are you feeling all right?"

I force a smile. "Yes, I am feeling fine. Why do you ask?" Lord Elrond watches all of us like a hawk for any sign of ailment. I once had a twisted ankle that I managed to keep hidden from him for two whole days, but I know that to be a record. Usually, none of us can even get a headache without being confined to the healing chambers for an entire week. If Lord Elrond had heard Glorfindel coughing on the dust in the library, then Glorfindel would be drinking his third cup of healing tea about now. And they call _me_ paranoid.

Lord Elrond does not seem convinced. "You seem a bit peaky. Glorfindel told me that he was worried about your health."

Ah, so that is the reason. I am impressed, Glorfindel. That was a clever move. "Actually, I am feeling perfectly wonderful. The lighting in the library is a bit peculiar if you are not used to it, so Glorfindel probably just mistook it for pallor."

Lord Elrond looks over me once more before he finally nods. He almost looks disappointed. "Very well. How is your progress on finding the book?"

"We have looked all over the library, and we are taking a small rest of one hour before we resume our search."

"Excellent. I am glad to hear that the two of you are getting along so well."

My first thought is to laugh, but then Lord Elrond might think I am hysterical and confine me to the healing chambers for a month. So I settle for a smile that is only slightly sarcastic. "I have never had an experience quite like working with Lord Glorfindel."

He looks pleased. "I am so glad to hear that! The two of you have been bitter enemies for long enough."

I freeze. It seems as if he is about to go into one of his meaningful speeches. Normally I do not mind them, and as long as both of us are in the right mood I often enjoy them, but now is not the time.

Suddenly one of the apprentice healers runs up to him. "Lord Elrond! You must come quickly! Elladan fell down the stairs and his ankle is broken!"

Lord Elrond's face drains of all color. "I will be right there!" He turns to me. "Erestor, I hate to interrupt our conversation, but—"

I hold up a hand. "No apology is needed. Your son needs you. I understand completely."

He flashes me a thin smile and rushes off with the healer. Poor Elladan… this is the third time in two months that the hapless Elfling has broken a bone. I feel sorry for him, I really do, even though he and his brother _do_ delight in torturing me. They are young and they do not know any better—especially since Glorfindel seems to be their role model for proper behavior. Those poor children.

I continue toward my room, and then come to a complete stop in surprise. Glorfindel left the door to his room open. He may not be the most brilliant Elf in history, but even he knows not to leave doors open. The twins are not tall enough to turn doorknobs yet, but they can push open a door that is not closed. To leave a door open is to ask for trouble!

I reach forward and put my head in to look around and make sure that neither of the twins is inside. I know Elladan is having his broken ankle set, but Elrohir might have—no, I do not see either of them. Glorfindel is one lucky Elf.

I frown at the mess inside the room. Glorfindel has to be the most disorganized person I have ever seen! This room is a disaster. Clothes and papers and arrows—thank the Valar the twins are not here, they would have murdered one another with the arrows! —are all over the floor. It is a wonder he can find anything in this room!

Wait a moment…

Could it be that perhaps Elrond's book is in Glorfindel's room? It seems unlikely, since even by his own confession he dislikes reading, but at the same time it makes sense. I have known him to get one or two books to reference something, and then the rest of Imladris never sees the books again. Perhaps Glorfindel used the book and forgot to return it.

I step inside, shutting the door behind myself, and look around. The most likely spot for a book in Glorfindel's room is—well, anywhere. I set down _Nolendil of Sirion_ and decide to start with the shelves in the corner.

The shelves are stacked with papers. I catch a glimpse of a stack of drawings done by children, complete with signatures. Most of them are by Elladan and Elrohir—they only initial their work, but it is easy to tell them apart because for the longest time Elrohir always drew the capital letter _E_ backwards—but there is art here from almost every child in Imladris. Some of these children have grown and now serve in the Guard under Glorfindel's command. Here is one from little Sírildë, the daughter of one of Lord Elrond's other advisors… she married not long ago. It seems as if Glorfindel has collected an entire history of Imladris and its residents, based solely on children's artwork.

I flip through a few more drawings. Most of them are entitled "Me and Glorfindel," with various spellings of Glorfindel's name. Apparently, Glorfindel is popular with everyone. I am not surprised.

Suddenly, I catch a glimpse of something peculiar on the shelf, under another stack of childhood masterpieces. It is a quill pen. It looks out of place on this shelf… not that anything appears to have a place or be in the right place anyway.

I examine the pen more closely. I have never seen the like of it! It looks as if it is only slightly used, almost new. I have never seen such a pure white plume, not even on the swans that grace Lothlórien. The tip is not even bent. Think of the wonders that such a marvelous tool could produce!

Glorfindel will never use this quill. He hates all manner of paperwork with a deadly hatred, and I have known him to use the most ridiculous excuses to get out of having to write anything. I cannot understand how anyone could hate pen and parchment as much as Glorfindel does. Why does he have such a beautiful pen when he will never write?

I could certainly put this to good use for a few formal invitations I have to send to Greenwood…

We advisors tend to borrow things from one another often. We always ask permission if we can, and only borrow without permission if it is obvious that the owner of the object is not using the object. We all share pens, jars of ink, notes on meetings… even one particular jar of special red ink that has been passed around so many times that we have long forgotten who was the original owner. Of course, we make it a habit to return objects promptly, with gratitude. No one has ever been more than mildly inconvenienced, and no one has ever become angry. It is simply an accepted part of our role in Lord Elrond's household.

If Glorfindel were here, I would certainly ask if I could borrow the pen, but he is not here. He is obviously not using it… it was underneath a stack of dusty drawings. The only thing I need it for is the invitations, and I doubt that Glorfindel would even notice that it was missing before I returned it to him. I do not think he would mind.

I turn the quill around in my fingers. What potential! Such a beautiful pen makes me eager to write. How could Glorfindel have had such a marvelous thing in his possession and never use it? He is even more odd than I thought he was at first.

I glance around the rest of the room. I see a few books, but a quick look tells me that not one of them is _Traditional Recipes of Nargothrond_.

I walk towards the door and open it, making sure that I pick up _Nolendil of Sirion_ as I leave.

TBC


	4. Lindir

**Traditional Recipes for Disaster**

**by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor **

**Disclaimer: **Neither of us owns _Lord of the Rings _or anything pertaining to it. This story was written for entertainment only.

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**Glorfindel.**

For the first time in many years, I try to be unobtrusive while entering the dining hall. I fail in my attempt. Naturally.

I do not usually mind being what someone (Lord Erestor, for example) would call 'the center of attention'. I'll listen to the Elves of Imladris when they want to talk to me. When they are sad I'll try to cheer them up, and when they are happy, they know that I'll be happy with them. I love to be a part of things.

A child comes over to tell me about his new puppy, and one of my young warriors advances on me to discuss whetstones, and two maidens bring me something to eat and blush when I thank them. I make a half-hearted effort to get away to somewhere where I can think properly, but the child's recounting of his dog's antics is very amusing.

Just as he is telling me about the puppy's first attempt at catching rats – perhaps Imladris _is_ infested –, someone grabs my sleeve, says something polite to the child, warrior, and maidens and hauls me to a table.

Lindir is a rather strange Elf. He has a fondness for analogies and almond paste and ludicrous situations. At the moment there is a smirk on his face, which quite honestly worries me a little. He plasters on a wide-eyed, hopeful expression the moment he sees me looking at him. This worries me even more.

"Erestor, are you quite all right?" I ask absently, glancing down at my plate of food.

"You called me Erestor," he says accusingly.

"What? I did?" I hate feeling confused. That's why I try to avoid Lindir, I suppose. "I hope you were not offended."

The smirk returns.

"Not that being called Erestor is offensive," I say quickly. Too quickly. " Erestor is an honorable. . .er. . .scholarly Elf. . .I'm sure."

"Valar, this is worse than I thought," says Lindir. "First you ask me, 'Erestor, are you quite all right?' and then you sit here and stare at me in almost a piscine fashion. Did Lord Erestor knock you over the head with one of his books? You're acting even more dazed than usual."

This tirade is quite startling, but it gives me time to collect myself. "No, I'm fine. I've just had an unpleasant afternoon."

"Ah, yes. You were book hunting with Lord Erestor."

"How did you know?"

"I know everything."

I lean back in my chair. I do not doubt Lindir when he says he knows everything. He probably does. Or at least, he probably knows everything that's worth knowing. He can be found in any corner of Imladris. He turns up in the strangest places. He hounds me doggedly. He is the only Elf, other than Lord Erestor (and Lord Elrond, on occasion), who I try to avoid. Sometimes I think he only pretends to be harmless.

The maidens have kindly provided me with a slice of bread. I pick it up and take a bite.

Lindir, observing that my mouth is full, seizes his opportunity to ask me a question. "You didn't find the book, did you?"

I shake my head, annoyed. By the time I'm done chewing, Lindir is talking again. "No, I didn't think you'd find it," he says airily.

"Why did you think that?" There is no use in being angry with him. That's what's so frustrating.

Lindir tries to look mysterious, fails dismally, and looks mildly ill instead. "Can't say."

I finish the bread and sample some soup. "I'm no good at finding things. Unless they're in my bedroom, of course. Then I know to look in the least likely place."

Lindir smiles smugly. "Sometimes things aren't even in the least likely place."

"I don't see how that works," I mutter. I stir the soup pointlessly for a few moments, and then say, "Please don't tell anyone this."

"Don't tell them what?" Lindir's ears prick forward.

"Do you think Erestor has the book?" I ask. "I'm beginning to wonder, but it seems unfair to suspect such a thing. Lord Elrond trusts Erestor. And Lord Erestor seems intent on pleasing Elrond, but then, I don't really know anything about Erestor, and I really want to find this book, and I'm going to investigate his bedroom."

Lindir blinks. I'm rather surprised at my conclusion as well, but now that I think on it, it makes sense. "You're going to snoop through Lord Erestor's things because you _think _that he might have stolen Lord Elrond's book?" asks Lindir.

"Not stolen. _Misplaced._"

Lindir sits down. "Glorfindel..." He sighs, shakes his head. Then he smiles at me. "So, what do you want me to do?"

"Keep him out of his bedroom while I'm sneaking through his stuff," I say, being direct and to-the-point.

"How? Do you want me to lock him a hall closet?"

I grin at the thought. Occasionally I love the way Lindir puts things. "Good idea."

Lindir knows that sometimes I joke very seriously. He is one of the few people who realizes this. "You don't _really_ want me to do that, do you?" he asks carefully.

I shake my head. "While a few hours in a closet would probably do Erestor some good, it wasn't the tactic I was thinking of. I thought you might begin talking about books or something. Say you want to read more and ask what books he recommends." My cunning revenge on both of them. "That should distract him long enough." And it should be pure torture for you, Lindir.

I lick my soup spoon, well satisfied with my idea. If Erestor has the book in his bedroom, then I'll find it. If Erestor doesn't have the book, then it won't matter if I snoop through his things. It's perfect.

"So why this sudden suspicion of a poor innocent advisor?"

I snort at the description, as it's not one I'd use in context with Erestor, and it's certainly not one I'd have thought _Lindir_ would use. Lindir and Erestor seem to dislike each other quite a bit. When I reply, I'm more serious than usual. "I don't really know. Lord Erestor makes me jumpy. He's always glaring at me. No matter what I do, I feel as though he's judging me. And I'm not used to being disliked." I reflect on this profound thought for a moment. "But I do not dislike him back. Not really."

Lindir takes a pastry off my plate and nibbles on it. "Well, I don't feel sorry for you."

"Thanks."

"You have to learn how to handle being disliked. You can't retaliate in kind – I _know_ you're capable of being mean, Glorfindel – and you can't get depressed. Everyone is disliked by somebody," says Lindir wisely, continuing to scoff my dinner.

"Is Erestor even in here?"

"No."

"He's probably off to read his beloved book then," I say. _The one about the rats_, I add mentally. Lindir raises his eyebrows at me. "All right, Lindir. For your sake. He's probably retired for a much deserved rest and is most likely reading a book. How's that?"

"Much more charitable."

"Then, if you'll excuse me, I'll go and look for this book."

"And what if Lord Erestor is in his bedroom?"

"Then you can bang on his door and yell things about termites attacking the library. He'll dash out to save his books, and I can dash in and look for Elrond's cursed recipes."

"Your mission is doomed to failure."

"Lindir, have I ever told you how much I appreciate your optimism in situations such as this one?"

"Very funny, Lord Glorfindel."

Lindir and I exit the dinning hall, two Elves on a mission.

**Erestor.**

I walk down the hallway, scarcely able to believe my luck. Can my day actually be _improving_? Not only is Glorfindel far away from me at the moment—and he will be for quite some time, as I am sure that there will be plenty of people in the dining hall that are eager to talk to him—but I will be able to finish those invitations to Greenwood. Elrond's book will be found some time today, I have no doubt, and for an hour or so I will have peace and qui—

"Lord Erestor!"

I freeze. It would seem that I spoke too soon.

"Ah, Lord Erestor, _there_ you are! I was looking all over for you!"

I slowly turn around to face my pursuer. Thank the Valar for small mercies—it is not Glorfindel. However, this is almost as bad.

"Yes, Lindir?" I say, trying to infuse all my annoyance into his name by enunciating it very clearly.

"I was wondering if you could help me in the library," he says cheerfully. If he noticed the threatening way I spoke, he does not give it away. "You see, there is a book that I am trying to find…"

Oh, no. Not another book…

"…and since I know you love the library so much, I thought that you would be just the one to ask!" There is a triumphant smile on his face.

I take a deep breath, inwardly counting to ten in every language I know. "Do you need this… book… right away?" I ask, hoping that perhaps he will say _no_.

No such luck. "Actually, I _do_ need it right away," he says, nodding fiercely. "That's why I wanted to talk to you, because I know that you probably know the library better than anyone else in Rivendell, and you could help me find it more quickly than the other librarians."

"Very well," I say, hoping that he will be put off by the scowl I give him. "If it is _very_ important."

He grins. "Oh, it is."

I am beginning to wonder if perhaps I am simply cursed. Considering the day I have had today, it is a very likely possibility. I have no idea what great crime I have committed to anger Manwë and Varda and Eru Ilúvatar, but apparently I have done something. Perhaps they are simply angry because I was mean to their pet Elf Glorfindel. It appears that he is as much their favorite as he is the favorite of everyone else.

I sigh to myself as I walk down the hall, Lindir close behind. Valar, I _am_ in a bad mood.

Perhaps if Lindir's book is easy to find, I can simply help him and get back to my work. Then again, considering my luck today, Lindir's book will probably be about as easy to find as Elrond's.

We enter the library and I immediately walk to the shelves. "What is the title of the book, Lindir?" I ask.

He thinks deeply. Come on, Lindir, I am no fool, and I know that you are not a fool either. It was not that difficult of a question.

"It is called _Essays on the Dagor-nuin-Giliath_, I believe. Yes, that was it."

I raise an eyebrow. "Lindir, you are a minstrel. Why do you want a book of essays?"

My question seems to have caught him off guard. "Well… I am… trying to write a song, you see, and I want it to be completely accurate. Essays are very scholarly, and so I thought that they would probably have the best information."

I cross my arms. "Since when are you concerned about the 'facts' in your songs? If I remember correctly, the last song you wrote was _I Faroth Beren_, "The Brave Hunters," in which you stated quite clearly that I was to blame for the fact that Elladan and Elrohir went off looking for their lost dog!"

A flash of annoyance flickers in his eyes. "Well, you always said 'Morgoth take that despicable creature' so often that when the dog disappeared, they thought that Morgoth had done what you asked him to, and so they went off to get their dog back from him! I thought it was very brave of them, actually."

"Yes, well, you seem to have conveniently forgotten that I was the one who finally found the beast in the stable with a litter of puppies. In the song, you said that Glorfindel found her."

He blinks. "That was… artistic license. Glorfindel's name fit the rhyme scheme better than yours did. Besides, if I had included the fact that you were the one who found her, I might also have had to include the fact that you leapt nearly a foot into the air when she started barking at you."

I narrow my eyes at him. "What are you insinuating, Lindir?"

He smiles at me. Lindir has a very dangerous smile, especially when he knows things that you never wanted him to know. Unfortunately, I see that smile quite often. "Only that Elladan and Elrohir would be very interested to learn that you are afraid of their dog."

"I am not afraid of that loathsome animal! I simply… do not like it."

"Oh, I'm sure. Is this the same way that you 'do not like' telling Lord Elrond that you can't find his book?"

I start to retort, but then his words sink in. How did Lindir know that Glorfindel and I were unable to find Lord Elrond's book? I give him a suspicious glare. "Have you been talking to Glorfindel?"

He shrugs. "Why would that be important?"

"I just wondered." I turn to the shelves. "_Essays on the Dagor-nuin-Giliath_… I think that you would probably find it over here."

And so I begin another long stay in the library, looking for another book that no one except Lindir seems to remember seeing.

I was right. I _am_ cursed.

TBC


	5. Several Revelations

**Traditional Recipes for Disaster**

**by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor**

**Disclaimer: **Neither of us own _Lord of the Rings_ or anything pertaining to it. This story was written for entertainment only. However, the character Soroninquë, and this version of Erestor's angsty past, both belong to **Ithiliel Silverquill**and were borrowed with permission.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**Glorfindel. **

Erestor's rooms are... austere. I suppose it should not surprise me, for Erestor himself tends to be austere. Well, this should make things a lot simpler. Everything in this room is organized half to death.

I look over Erestor's bookshelf first. It is nearly crammed to the bursting. I daren't touch anything, because the books are dusty and I'd leave telltale fingerprints, but I examine each title carefully. A few of the older volumes do not have the titles stamped on their bindings, so I am forced to gently slide them out and open them.

Elrond's book is not there. I am beginning to resent Finrod. Why did he have traditional recipes anyway? What traditional food could they possibly have eaten in Nargothrond? If I remember correctly, back then we were still trying to figure out which plants wouldn't make us sick upon ingestion.

I walk over to Erestor's desk, which the only other piece of furniture in the bedroom that has books on it. _Traditional Recipes of Nargothrond_ is not sitting out in the open. However, since it has proved to be a very elusive old tome, I open the drawers and peer in.

Can't see any book. I open the other drawers. One seems promising, since the book could be hidden under some old papers, but when I lift them out and check underneath, this drawer too is devoid of books. There are a few quill pens and pots of ink neatly arranged in a corner, but no book.

Sigh. Deep breath. Think for a moment, Glorfindel. Does Erestor have this book?

Apparently not. I was wrong about him. Erestor does not misplace anything.

No, I will not simply accept defeat like this! I look around the room one more time. I look under Erestor's bed. I look for bulges under his threadbare rug. Eventually, as I am almost about to succumb to despair, I see some papers by Erestor's bed, so I go over and lift them up too.

No book.

I flop down on Erestor's pristine bed and consider the situation. I don't have much longer, because I don't know how long Lindir can keep Erestor occupied, but I suddenly feel very worn out. I'm sick of all this futile searching! I think I'd prefer writing long boring reports to this. Maybe.

I glance at the papers and Erestor's neat, careful handwriting catches my eye like a bramble. He has written _My dearest brother Soroninquë_ along the top of the page.

I don't really mean to, but I read on, fascinated.

_My dearest brother Soroninquë,_

_There you have it. Since you persist in calling me 'little Erestor', I have been forced to call you by your full name, simply to prove that I am _not _little and I _can_ spell. I know that when last you saw me, before you went away, I did not quite come up to your shoulder, but I am certain that I have become somewhat taller since then. Yes, you may laugh, but I really have grown this time. I have marks on the wall to prove it. _

A blot of ink covers whatever had been written next,which convinces me that Erestor must have been younger when he wrote this letter, for the Erestor I know _never_ gets ink blots on anything. I suppose this letter must be a rough draft. Even years ago, Erestor must have been careful to have his work look absolutely perfect.

I turn to the next letter. The handwriting is different, and there is a date at the top of the page. The year is 1696 S.A., about the time when Sauron's forces were invading Eregion. Interesting.

_My dearest brother Erestor,_

_I give up! Looking at my full name gives me a headache. I beg you, please resume calling me Nin. It is much easier both to write and to read. As you can see, I have mentioned nothing of your height, (though it is my opinion that you have grown in cunning). Does the name Luinaiwë now offend you, or may I call you that still? _

_I was much amused by your recounting of your morning. I am sure that you will be able to locate your best pot of ink eventually, and the sooner the better! In fact, I hope that as I write this, you have already found it. I appreciate your letters greatly, as they make me laugh a good deal, and, on the war front, very few things are funny._

Erestor? Funny? I smile. Perhaps he is. There are most likely sides of his personality that he would not show _me._ I turn to the next letter. Another rough draft.

_Greetings, O exalted elder brother (Nin)!_

_After writing out Soroninquë, Nin seemed far too short a way to begin a letter. I think I have remedied that, however. Luinaiwë? I know better than to protest that name! I long ago accepted that Luinaiwë is a name I shall never escape. But do not think me negative; I am not complaining. I enjoy being your little bluebird, all chirpy and obnoxious and pestering. Being your younger brother certainly has its merits, tormenting you being not the least of them. _

Suddenly I remember the time, and my lack of it. I do not have time to sit here reading Erestor's private letters! I should not have been reading his letters in the first place!

I panic a little, and snatch up the bundle of papers. A slip of parchment tumbles out. I pick it up, am poised to shove it back into the stack, and then read it too, with a feeling of shock.

_Erestor Caranárion:_

_As your brother's captain, it is my grave duty to inform you that Soroninquë was killed in battle last evening. He died nobly, defending Eregion from the Enemy's forces. I write this with great sadness, for I know that you and Soroninquë were very close, particularly after the death of your father. _

There is more, but I do not read it. Because suddenly, my wish is granted and I understand Erestor better. I understand why he is so serious, so austere. I understand why he never seems happy. I understand why he hates me. In his eyes, my life is perfect and everyone loves me and I can get away with anything.

I can empathize with Erestor, because I know what it feels like to lose friends and family to the Enemy. To lose everything.

I should not have read Erestor's letters. I should not have even come into his room. But I feel... glad to have done so. Perhaps I can help Erestor in some way, either by avoiding him or by _really_ trying to be kinder to him.

I put down his letters, feeling dazed and guilty; hurry out of his room, shutting the door behind me; and then proceed to my own chambers. I have a lot to think about.

An Elfling is sitting by my door, sucking his thumb and holding his rather shabby stuffed toy. He smiles up at me. "Glor'y?"

"Yes, Elrohir?" I know the child is Elrohir because Elladan would never suck his thumb. Elladan thinks he's too grown-up to do something like that.

"Can I have a big fevver too?" asks Elrohir with no further preamble.

I look at him, confused for what must be the tenth time today. "Big fevver?"

"A fevver. From a bird. Can I have one?"

"No, I'm sorry. I don't have any feathers, Elrohir." Almost said 'fevver'. Maybe Elrohir talks this way so that he can listen to his elders trying not to lisp back at him.

Elrohir pouts. "Wessi got one."

"Well, whoever Wessi is, he obviously took my last one. Where's Elladan?"

"He broke his leg."

"Oh."

I enter my room. I should probably clean it soon; by now I can hardly see the floor. Everything seems to be in its usual place. Except...

My stack of drawings looks neater. It might be my paranoia acting up, or perhaps someone entered this room and rooted through _my_ things. Someone with a natural inclination to organize things. Someone who couldn't help but straighten my pile of papers as he put it down again.

Wessi. I do not doubt that it is the word 'Ressi' as said by a child with a (supposedly) cute lisp. Ressi is a potential nickname from someone named Erestor. Incidently, the one Erestor I know happens to _love_ to organize things.

I scramble over to the stack of drawings and lift it up, dreading what I'll find.

I find nothing, which was exactly what I was dreading.

Wessi! The wicked wobber! He's filched my quill pen, the one that survived the long journey from Valinor to Middle-Earth. The quill pen that even managed to survive _me_ and that eventually found its way back to me when I returned... It is a quill pen that I have never used, for fear of accidently damaging it.

I suspect that at this moment, unless Lindir is being very distracting, Erestor is happily sitting somewhere writing things with my pen! No scribe could resist it. I know that it is the most beautiful quill pen an Elf like Erestor has seen in his life.

He stole my pen! I cannot believe it! I knew that he dislikes me, but I had not realized that he was so spiteful as to take my one memory of home!

I know just where to find _him_!

**Erestor. **

Lindir leads me out of the library—this is the second time that I have been glad to leave that wonderful place and I fervently hope it is the last—and into the hallway.

"I can't understand it," he says. "I'm sure that I saw the book somewhere in the library just last week. Maybe if we looked in the…" He stops mid-sentence and gazes at something behind me in the hallway. "Oh dear." His face has gone very pale.

Curious, I turn to see what he is looking at, and immediately I wish I had not.

Glofindel is striding—no,_ thundering_—down the hallway toward me, a wrathful and offended look on his face. The last time he gave me that expression was when I seated him between the Lady Galadriel and a giggly Elf-maiden at a formal dinner on purpose. I doubt that he has ever forgiven me for that little incident… thought it was rather entertaining to watch him suffer through four courses of Lady Galadriel's glares and the Elf-maiden's bashful giggling. However, that was over a hundred years ago, and I cannot imagine what I have done to cause his anger this time.

He comes to a sudden stop only inches away from my face. Valar, I have never seen him this angry! In spite of my personal determination to never show fear, I find myself fumbling with the collar of my robe. "Lord Glorfindel?" I ask. Unfortunately, the words come out like something resembling a squeak. "Is there something—"

His eyes flash. "Would you care to explain why you have decided to stoop to _thievery_, Lord Erestor?"

I blink at him, honestly mystified. "Thievery? I do not know what you are talking about."

"Oh, you know very well," he snaps. "No doubt you thought that it was just too beautiful to resist. No scribe could, I'm sure."

"What…?" Then I suddenly remember. "Oh, the quill pen."

"Yes, the quill pen!"

I take it out of my pocket and hand it to him. "I did not know that you were so strongly attached to it." I cannot resist a longing look in the pen's direction—it _is_ a lovely instrument, and I cannot understand why Glorfindel never uses it.

He blinks, as if he expected me to at least argue with him or refuse to give the quill back to him. He looks it over, as if making sure that I did not damage it—I did not—and places it in his pocket. "Why did you steal it?"

"I did not _steal_ it, I merely borrowed it," I answer, knowing how weak that argument is. But it is the truth. "You do not use it, it was buried under a stack of old drawings, and I only needed it for one simple thing. I had planned to give it back to you before you even noticed that it was missing."

He narrows his eyes. "What were you doing in my room, anyway?"

"Looking for Lord Elrond's book, of course! I cannot understand how you know where anything is in that room. I thought that perhaps you had borrowed Lord Elrond's book from the library, and then misplaced it among your belongings."

Suddenly there is a strange noise behind me. It sounds like… giggling. Glorfindel and I stop glaring at one another just long enough to stare in the noise's direction… it is Lindir. He is laughing so hard that I can see tears at the corners of his eyes.

"What, may I ask, is so funny?" asks Glorfindel, gazing at Lindir with an expression that would freeze an angry Balrog.

Lindir tries to catch his breath. "You—Erestor—rooms—"

I lift an eyebrow. Has Lindir finally lost his mind? I have been wondering about him ever since he wrote "Tra-La-La-Lally," but I see that the inevitable has finally occurred. But I will need more proof than simply hilarity if I am to convince Lord Elrond of that fact. "Please speak clearly, Lindir," I say.

It takes a few minutes, during which Glorfindel and I glance at one another with identical looks of consternation, but finally Lindir manages to get himself under control. Oh, well, I will have to try some other time.

"Glorfindel—you and Erestor were doing the exact same thing!" Lindir gasps between breaths.

"I beg your pardon?" I ask, confused. I glance over at Glorfindel, who all of the sudden seems very interested in the pattern on the floor. "What do you mean?"

Lindir grins at me and Glorfindel, his eyes sparkling with mischief and glee. "You were doing exactly the same thing! While you were searching _his_ room, he was searching _yours_!" With that, he again doubles over in helpless laughter.

Glorfindel… in _my_ room…?

I whirl around to face Glorfindel, who looks up at me with a very guilty expression. "You _hypocrite_!" I fume. "Berating me for going in your room while all the while you had done the same to me!"

He straightens. "I wasn't berating you for going in there, I was berating you because you stole my pen!"

"I told you; I did not steal it, I _borrowed_ it! There _is_ a difference, you know! And what were you doing in my bedroom anyway?"

"Looking for Elrond's book, of course! For all I knew, you might have had it all along, and were just leading me on a wild goose chase to watch me make a fool of myself while _you_ spent your time _reading_!"

He says the word 'reading' as he would say 'playing with ducklings in a pond'! "Well, at least I read!" I say. "We have been through this argument already!"

Glorfindel opens his mouth to respond, but our discussion is once again interrupted by Lindir's giggling. Glorfindel huffs at the annoying minstrel. "You're no help at all."

"Well, I distracted him, didn't I?" protests Lindir, an innocent look on his face.

"So you sent him to _distract_ me!" I say, looking at Glorfindel again. "You wanted to have me neatly out of the way so that you could go in my room and see for yourself if I was lying again!" I shake my head, trying my very hardest to calm down when inwardly I am quivering with rage. "I do not know how you live with yourself." He starts to say something, but I hold up a silencing hand. "Not a _word_, Lord Glorfindel."

My mind is made up in an instant. I turn and walk down the hall toward Elrond's office. I did not volunteer for anything, and there is simply too much work for me to waste my time fighting with Glorfindel. I will simply ask Elrond to release me from the assignment.

I approach Lord Elrond's office door, slowing down as I realize that for the first time since I was appointed Chief Advisor, I am about to let my lord and employer down and admit that a problem is too big for me to handle. I have always believed that Elrond would never give me any assignment that I could not fulfill. But it cannot be helped… I simply cannot work with Glorfindel.

There are voices coming from inside the room.

"…clever plan, don't you?" That would be Elrond talking, and he sounds pleased with himself. "I talked to both Glorfindel and Erestor in the hallway, and both of them assured me that they were getting along wonderfully."

I hear soft laughter that I immediately recognize as that of Lady Celebrían. "Well, I suppose it _did_ work. And I do agree that something needed to be done about Glorfindel and Erestor… their bickering was beginning to be a bad influence on the twins. But I still cannot understand why you decided to send them off in search of a nonexistent book. Surely there were other ways of getting them to cooperate with one another…?"

Their conversation continues, but I am too much in shock to listen. _Nonexistent book… bickering…_

I hear two sets footsteps behind me. A hand grabs my shoulder.

"Erestor, what do you think you're _doing_?" asks Glorfindel incredulously.

I point to the door. "Glorfindel… listen."

TBC


	6. Rants, Tea, and Some Light Conversation

**Traditional Recipes for Disaster**

**by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor**

**Disclaimer: **Neither of us own _Lord of the Rings_ or anything pertaining to it. This story was written for entertainment only.** Ithiliel Silverquill **is the one who comes up with all these OCs, so Meretheryn and Maikandro both belong to her and were used with permission.

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**

**Erestor. **

Glorfindel frowns and puts one ear to the painted surface. His expression is at first confused, then disbelieving, then finally disgruntled. He straightens. "Of all the traitorous, deceitful, manipulative things to do!" he hisses, so that I can hear him painfully clearly but Elrond cannot. "Oh, when I get my hands on that miserable peredhel…"

"What will you do?" breaks in an eager voice. Lindir again.

Glorfindel sends Lindir a glare that is even angrier than the one he sent me when he thought I had stolen his pen. "I will feed him to angry wargs, very slowly and very painfully. And you will be the second course."

Lindir's face assumes an expression of almost childlike innocence. "Me?"

"Yes, you! You knew about this the whole time, didn't you?"

The mischievous glimmer of glee that finds its way into Lindir's eyes makes his façade of innocence even less convincing than it already was. By now he looks about as innocent as Morgoth. "I know not what you mean, Glorfindel."

Glorfindel looks as if he is about to toss another remark in Lindir's direction, but then he frowns and looks at me. "Lord Erestor, are you all right? You look pale."

I try to swallow, but my throat feels very dry. "I… I think I need to sit down." My mind is swirling. _Bad influence… clever plan… cooperate…_I walk past Lindir and Glorfindel and sit down on a small bench in the hallway, between a potted plant and a mural of Lindon.

Lindir breaks into a wide smile. "_I _think it was very clever of Lord Elrond, actually," he says gaily. "To force you to work with one another so that you weren't at one another's throats!"

Glorfindel looks from the door, to Lindir, to me, and then his frown slowly lessens. "Well, it didn't work, anyway. Lord Erestor still hates me, and we ended the entire situation by screaming at one another." He chuckles. "It's actually humorous, in a way. Ironic."

I look up at him. "_Humorous_! How can you call it _humorous_? This is the worst thing that has _ever_ happened to me!" Then I stop as my brother's face appears before my mind's eye, and I remember giving Captain Maikandro's letter to my mother. "No… no, I amend that. Not the worst."

Lindir's eyes light up and his ears prick forward. "What are you talking about, Erestor?" If there is anyone in Imladris that could be called a gossip, it would be Lindir. He knows everything there is to know about almost everyone, and he frequently alludes to embarrassing situations in his songs, subtly or not so subtly. However, he is never satisfied, and is always on the lookout for new material.

Suddenly I hear Glorfindel's voice, as stern as I have ever heard it. "Lindir. Back off."

Both Lindir and I glance up at Glorfindel in surprise. The golden-haired Elf has his arms crossed over his chest, and a look of warning in his eyes. "What did you say, Glorfindel?" asks Lindir.

"I said, back off. Erestor's concerns are none of your business. If he wanted to tell you, he would have told you a long time ago."

Lindir's eyes widen with shock and his mouth drops open. "I—I was only going to ask him what he…"

"I know. And I said to back off. You're too nosy for your own good. Leave him alone."

Lindir shuts his mouth with an audible _snap_. "Very well, then. Good day, my lords." He turns and walks away with an air of insulted pride.

I stare up at Glorfindel. "What was _that_ all about?"

He glances down at me with an expression somewhere between guilt and pity, then shrugs nonchalantly. "Well, I thought it would be rude of him to pry."

I can tell by the way he refuses to look me in the eyes that he must be hiding something. "But that is not the only reason, is it?"

He opens his mouth, then slowly closes it. "No, it isn't." He glances around the hallway as if to make sure that no one else is listening, then motions for me to follow him. "There's something I need to tell you."

Mystified, I stand and follow him into one of the council-chambers that is not being used. It is large enough that a few people can sit comfortably, but small enough to be perfect for private conversations. Glorfindel takes a seat, shifts around in it and squirms, then finally gives up sitting down and walks over to the window. I wait for him to begin talking; whatever he wants to say is obviously important.

"You know that I—that we—went through one another's rooms," he says.

I feel a bit ashamed of myself. I _was_ being nosy. I should not have gone in Glorfindel's rooms, and I _really_ should not have taken his belongings without asking him. "Lord Glorfindel, if this is about the quill pen, then I am sorry. I truly only needed to borrow it for some formal invitations that I have to send to King Thranduil in Greenwood. I assure you that it will not happen again."

He chuckles and gives me a pained smile. "It isn't about the pen, Erestor." He takes a deep breath. "I was looking for Lord Elrond's book in your room, and I… found something."

I raise my eyebrows at him. "You _found_ something?" This does _not_ sound good.

"There were papers sitting by your bed."

Well, that could be any number of things. "I always read in bed."

"Well, yes… but I accidentally started reading them."

"Reading them?" Usually, the only thing I read to relax is history, along with the occasional Quenya grammar. "So you _do_ read. Though I fail to see how one can read accidentally. What did you find so entertaining about essays on the various aspects of Quenya?"

He swallows. "There weren't any essays. They were… well… letters."

Letters? I almost never receive letters. Most of what comes addressed to me is complaints about negotiations and failed treaties. I have not kept up a steady correspondence by letter since…

Suddenly I understand.

"Well, I didn't read all of them!" he says as if defending himself. "I stopped as soon as I realized what I was doing. But I went to put them away and one fell out. It was the one from…" His voice trails off.

"From Captain Maikandro," I finish wearily, leaning back and closing my eyes. "Informing me of my brother's death."

I hear nothing in response. He must have just nodded again. "I didn't know," he says quietly. "Why didn't you ever tell anyone? We could have helped you."

That was almost the exact same thing that Nin asked me once when he caught me trying to reach a book on top of the bookshelf. I still remember the way he said it half-playfully, picking me up by the waist and setting me atop his shoulders so that I could reach what I needed. "It happened long ago, Lord Glorfindel. No one can do anything about it now."

He turns and walks back over, sitting down in the chair again. "But you haven't forgotten, have you? You still think about it. Even if it leaves your mind for a while, it comes back to you when you're quiet and alone. You never really forget." He sighs. "I know."

I leap to my feet. "How would you know?" I say, anger rising in me that I neither understand nor try to control. "How could you understand? Your life is _perfect_! You have everything you could ever want! Everyone adores you; everyone names you a beloved hero; everyone thinks that you are the greatest Elf who ever lived!" I can see the utter astonishment on his face, but I do not stop. "Do _not_ try to tell me that you care, that you understand. You can _never _understand, Glorfindel! Soroninquë was more of a hero to me than _you_ could ever become! It nearly killed my mother to learn of his death, and my sister followed her to Valinor. But I stayed here, performing my duty to the very best of my ability, learning to live with the fact that everyone I ever cared about is gone. What more do you want of me?" By now I am shouting, and I do not doubt that if anyone were to walk by the doorway, they could hear me quite clearly. But I am past caring about that. "What more do all of you want?"

Glorfindel is silent while I finish my tirade, watching me with a strange expression on his face.

I collapse back into my chair, feeling completely drained. "I cannot be what my brother was. I cannot be what you are."

"No one ever asked you to be," he answers. I look up at him, and his eyes are full of understanding. "I thought the same of myself when I was first sent back. Why was I so chosen, while my family and friends and those worthier than I remained?" He sighs. "You are right, Erestor, in that what happened to him cannot be changed. I wish I could. I wish I could undo every terror that the Shadow has inflicted on our people. But I can't. The only thing I can do is help is those who still remain." He looks out the window at the blue sky overhead. "It took so long for me to heal. Some nights I could even hear the voices of those I loved in Gondolin, and see their faces in my mind. It seemed as if I was supposed to live for them, to carry out what they could not. That I was supposed to be what they would have been. I have never felt so inadequate, so painfully small. It was not until I talked with Elrond that I began to realize the truth."

"What did he say?"

Glorfindel smiles. "That I cannot live any life but my own. The Valar did not send me back to be the Great Hero of Gondolin, the Last Living Memory of the Fallen City… they sent me back to be Glorfindel. I do not fully understand why I was chosen, but I know that I am that: chosen. Manwë did not choose Ecthelion, or King Turgon, or my father—but he chose me. If I try to be anything but myself, or if I try to change to be anything other than what I am, then I am defeating Manwë's purpose for my life." He leans back in his chair. "It's the same for you. Don't try to be like me, or your brother, or anyone else. Be yourself, and let us love you for who you are."

I am silent. I had forgotten about Gondolin, really… well, one would think that if Glorfindel truly understood, then he would not torment me on a daily basis as he does. Love me for who I am… as if the likes of Glorfindel ever would. For all his kind speech, he is probably just groveling so that I will be moved and forget how mean and callous he always is to me. Only Nin could ever be what Glorfindel is pretending to be. Keep groveling, Glorfindel. If nothing else, I am entertained. But now that I consider everything that is going on, I really do not have time for this.

"I am sorry for my outburst, Lord Glorfindel," I say in as sincere a voice as I can muster. "It was wrong of me."

Glorfindel gives me an understanding smile… it seems to be genuine, and if I did not know what he really is, then I would almost be fooled by it. "Don't worry, Erestor. I'm not angry at you." He looks toward the door. "There are others, though… I cannot _believe_ Lord Elrond and Lindir!"

I decide to let the former subject drop, as it seems that Glorfindel is trying to move on to something else in the conversation. "You seem very certain that they will regret what they have done."

"They will, by the time I am finished with them," he says deviously.

I raise an eyebrow. "Do you have anything particular in mind?"

He grins. "Revenge."

**Glorfindel. **

Erestor looks at me blankly, his eyebrow still arched, and then frowns a little. "Revenge... on Lord Elrond?" he asks.

Oh Eru, I had forgotten that Erestor's natural inclination is probably to go and beg Elrond's forgiveness for being a bad influence on society. The poor Elf needs to have some more righteous indignation... No, actually, he has _plenty_ of righteous indignation , and this is not the time to dwell on his startling outburst. I can think about it later.

"Maybe just on Lindir, for starters," I say. That double-crossing, two-faced little bandicoot. . . "I thought you might have some good ideas?" I know that Erestor has a devious mind, and I'm not particularly clever at plotting.

Erestor considers this briefly. "I would have to have some time," he says. "I apologize. I do not feel quite myself."

I think that's an understatement, but I don't mention this. It's odd, but for once I don't feel like antagonizing Erestor. I feel like tiptoing carefully around him.

"You didn't come to dinner, did you?" I ask suddenly. He glances up, startled. "You're probably hungry," I explain.

"Hungry? No, I am not hungry," Erestor says. He stands up. "If you will excuse me, there are some duties I must attend to." He makes a move for the door.

"No, please, I'm sure you should eat something," I say in as nonthreatening a tone as possible while lunging (nonthreateningly) to intercept him.

Erestor hesitates. I know he must be hungry, so I'm fairly sure the hesitation is due to him pondering over whether taking my suggestion would be some sign of defeat or not. "Very well," he says. "I will have a cup of tea."

"Good, I shall have some tea also," I say. Erestor seems irritated, but unsurprised, by this development. I open the door for the two of us and step out into the hallway.

I am very good at telling when Elves are loitering. The four or five Elves in the hall are doing just that. I expect they heard Erestor shouting at me and now they're waiting to see who will emerge from the conference room alive. They appear relieved to see that both of us are unscathed.

Have we really been disturbing the peace? I did not think that our dislike for each other was so obvious. Perhaps it was. Elrond seemed to think that it was time to take steps to end our bickering. Can't say I agree with his steps, but...

I glance back at Erestor. Judging by the look on his face, the same thoughts are running through _his_ head. I almost expect him to retreat into the conference room again, but instead he walks past me and down the hall, ignoring the Elves who watch him go.

"Lord Glorfindel," says the Elf who is pretending to water the potted plants, "is everything all right?"

"Oh, yes. Everything's simply brilliant," I say. "Please excuse me." I hurry after Erestor, fighting my growing sense of doubt. Is this the right time to bother Erestor, or should I just leave him alone?

No, I think he wants to be left alone, and that's why I should stay. I told him that we could have helped him, so I'm going to try to help now. Except I'll probably bungle things... like I always do when it comes to Erestor...

I've caught up with Erestor. He doesn't look at me, so I simply walk alongside him. No reason to talk, we're trying not to aggravate each other. No reason to talk at all.

"Er. . .how _did_ you get that book down?" I ask. I've been wondering about this all day.

"The book?"

"The ra– the Nolendil one."

After a moment, Erestor says, stiffly, "I climbed up the pillar."

The pillar? I think about this. There is a pillar right next the bookshelf, and I suppose someone could climb up it, but _Erestor_? I think about this some more. I imagine Erestor scrambling up the pillar, and it does explain all the scuffling noises I heard, and, well, the thought of it is quite amusing. I _never_ would have thought of climbing up a pillar. I might have jumped up and down for a while, or gone off to find a ladder, or stood on the table, but I wouldn't have tried to climb up a pillar.

I try not to laugh, but I can't help it. I remember standing by the bookshelf, puzzling over how Erestor could have gotten the book, with the solution to the problem right in front of my nose.

Erestor halts and glares at me. "Lord Glorfindel," he begins, sounding very severe and annoyed, "I would prefer to have my tea _by myself_."

"I'm sorry," I say penitently, once I can speak. "Please do not think I was laughing at you. It's only that I have been wondering about how you could have retrieved your book, and I never thought of the pillar. It's such a marvelous solution!"

Erestor seems surprised, and then he snaps, "Well, I am sure that the next time you snatch a book from me, you will remember not to place it in the vicinity of a column of any sort."

Ah, he is determined to be angry. I suppose I deserve it. "Lord Erestor, I shouldn't have snatched the book. I'm very sorry that I did." I'm good at groveling, I think. My motto has always – at least, has _mostly_– been 'it's safest to be sorry'. It's one of the things that makes me lovable. And I _am_ sorry, very much so.

Erestor is softening a little. Perhaps. His eyes aren't so narrowed, and he doesn't seem so vague and uncomprehending. Previously I was worried that he was having a nervous breakdown of some sort. At my apology, he makes a noncommital sound that might be interpreted (by an excessively optimistic person) as 'I forgive you', or (if translated by an excessively negative person) as 'you disgust me'. I decide to think of it simply as a noncommital sound.

We arrive at the kitchens. The Elves who work there are the Elves who love to cook, and who have spent hundreds of years perfecting recipes and inventing their own. They are always producing delicious treats. The woman who I encountered earlier today is standing by the door, drying her hands. One glance at the two of us and she says, "Lord Erestor, are you all right?"

"Yes, Meretheryn, I am well," mumbles Erestor. Tsk, and he said he's never told a lie in his life.

"He's just had a shock," I say, "and now he needs a cup of tea."

Meretheryn nods understandingly, looking concerned. "I made some flakemeal biscuits but a few minutes ago. Would you like some of them too? You can't have tea without biscuits."

Flakemeal biscuits? I love those things! Meretheryn's biscuits are absolutely wonderful. "Yes, please," I say hungrily. Now that I think about it, I haven't had much to eat either. Lindir devoured my pastry.

Erestor and I sit down at a table and stare at it as if it was the most interesting table in the world. It is not. We are simply trying not to look at each other. Perhaps having tea together was a bad idea. Not only will we have to attempt to make light conversation, we will have cups of boiling water on hand when – _if_– the conversation becomes violent. However, I would prefer to keep Erestor's attention on getting revenge on Lindir and Elrond, and off such touchy subjects as, just for example, him getting revenge on _me_.

Meretheryn brings us some tea and a plate of biscuits. Flakemeal biscuits are small, unleavened cakes, mouthwateringly crisp and crunchy, made of buttery oats and various other ingredients. I pick one up and take a bite. Mmm, these are good.

Erestor's cup of tea smells of mint. Mine is vanilla. I love vanilla tea. Meretheryn is such a wonderful Elf. She knows exactly what we like.

I am feeling very happy and contented, and I hope Erestor's mood is somewhat improving. However, he is staring fixedly at his biscuit as though there's the possibility that it might get up and walk away. Bother. This is all my fault. I'm sitting here harassing him by my very presence.

I take another biscuit. All right, now for some light conversation. "So, what should we do to Lindir?" I ask.

Erestor smiles a little. I have seen that smile before, on occasion. It the smile of an Elf who is trying to make the best of things. It is one of the only smiles I've seen him use. "Lord Elrond is quite desperate to heal someone," he says. He sips his tea calmly.

"Meaning we should shove Lindir down the stairs or something?"

Erestor shakes his head. I can only imagine what he's thinking now. _That imbecilic Elf, he's not comprehended my clever plan immediately despite my vague and enlightening hint._ "No," he says. "We should merely prove to Lord Elrond that Lindir has lost his mind."

I smirk a little. "And how shall we prove that?"

Erestor's smile widens slightly. Now he looks far more devious than longsuffering. "Oh, it should be very simple," he says.

TBC


	7. Some More Light Conversation

**Traditional Recipes for Disaster **

**by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor **

**Disclaimer: **Neither of us own _Lord of the Rings _or anything pertaining to it.

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**Erestor. **

I run my finger along the rim of my teacup. I do not consider myself to be very talented, but I know how to make plans, and so a plan for revenge is something I can handle. Whether or not I will include Glorfindel as a victim or an accomplice, I have yet to decide. But for now, I will concentrate on Lindir. "Meretheryn is a very good cook."

Glorfindel lifts an eyebrow. "What does that have to do with anything? I mean, yes, she is, but…?"

I lift my teacup and take a slow sip, letting the cool of the mint and the warmth of the tea mingle in my mouth. Nothing is quite as soothing and calming as my favorite tea, brewed to perfection. This will help me think, instead of simply fume and be sarcastic. "Lindir is very fond of her cooking."

Glorfindel has a strange expression on his face, as if he is confused and trying not to show it. "We all are."

I lift one of the flakemeal biscuits from the plate and take a bite. "I have never known Meretheryn to make a mistake in her cooking, have you?"

"No." He swirls around the vanilla tea in his cup. "What are you thinking?"

Far more than you can guess, Glorfindel. "That although it is unlikely that Meretheryn will ever truly make a mistake with a dish, it might be possible to talk her into making one at the formal banquet tonight."

Glorfindel pops a flakemeal biscuit in his mouth and then promptly chokes on it. "What?" he says as soon as he starts breathing again. Then he looks around and lowers his voice. "You want to poison him? Erestor, I know you're upset, and rightfully so, but… isn't that a bit much?"

I take another sip of tea. "Regardless of what is obviously your opinion of me, I am neither a calculating, cold-blooded killer nor an idiot." I finish the other half of my biscuit. "He does not have to die, exactly, but it would serve both him and Lord Elrond right if Lindir spent a few weeks in the healing chambers." I lift an eyebrow at Glorfindel, a smile starting to creep across my face. "Do you agree?"

Glorfindel looks impressed. "Did you have anything particular in mind? I can't think of any herb that would make someone insane."

I think deeply, pondering and discarding ideas at a speed that I only reach when my attention is completely focused. My tea, the biscuits, and Glorfindel all seem miles away. Poison Lindir… he does not have to die, exactly, but he can suffer… it should not be obvious that he was poisoned… it should look like an accident, or even better, as if it is entirely Lindir's fault…

"Does Lindir have an over-fondness for miruvor?" I finally ask.

Obviously Glorfindel did not follow my chain of thought, based on the blank look he gives me, but he answers anyway. "I don't think he does."

I grin. "Perfect."

Glorfindel looks at me as if I am the one going mad. "Do you mind explaining?"

I drain my teacup and set it off to the side. "All we have to do is talk Meretheryn into slipping a bit of extra 'spice' into Lindir's drink… that should not be too difficult. The herbs' effects should be similar to the effects of intoxication. Since everyone at the banquet—other than the visitors, of course—knows that Lindir is not a drunkard, then the only explanation for his babbling and blubbering will be that he has simply gone mad. Lord Elrond will have a patient, and Lindir will have the most miserable month of his life." I sit back in my chair. "What do you think?"

Glorfindel blinks for a full minute before taking a deep breath and raising both eyebrows. "Well… that would do it," he says weakly. "Are you sure that there is such a recipe?"

"There is. Nolendil mentioned in his book that such a trick was used to have a stuffy ambassador in Lindon dismissed from his office. They slipped the crushed herbs into his drink, and an hour later he was standing in his chair, belting out all manner of things that should never have been said, with a slurred voice and glassy eyes. It was highly effective on the king, and the ambassador was quite mortified when he recovered and learned of his behavior. I think this would be just the thing for our nosy, manipulative harpist."

Glorfindel laughs. "Remind me to never get on your bad side, Erestor."

You already are, Glorfindel. "Well, you wanted a plan for revenge."

"And that certainly _is_ one." He takes another flakemeal biscuit. "So, how would we go about finding the herbs?"

"I think I left _Nolendil of Sirion_ in the conference room, so I will fetch it and look up the recipe. Do you think you could find some way to distract Lord Elrond from his store of healing herbs long enough for me to get what I need?"

He lifts an eyebrow. "Actually, it would look suspicious if I distracted him. Perhaps I can find someone to help us."

We are interrupted by a familiar voice. "Someone to help you, Lord Glorfindel?"

Both of us look up like trapped animals. We were so intent on our conversation that neither of us noticed that someone else was listening.

"L-Lady Celebrían," sputters Glorfindel as soon as he regains his power of speech. "How nice to see you."

She lifts one delicate silver eyebrow. "I thought I overheard something about poisoning someone. Would the two of you mind explaining your plot?"

Glorfindel and I look at one another, feeling beaten, and reluctantly Glorfindel explains everything. He does not get all of the details exactly as I explained them to him, but it does not matter. Now that Celebrían knows our plan, we can hardly put it into action. And this after she complained that my bickering with Glorfindel was a bad influence on her children… Valar, she must think that I am completely horrible!

When he is finished, she gives each of us a long, piercing look. "I never thought the two of you were so devious."

Glorfindel blinks innocently, in a poor imitation of Lindir. "It was Erestor's idea. The plan, I mean."

Yes, of course, Glorfindel. Blame the advisor.

Celebrían looks over at me and then suddenly smiles. "It reminds me of something that I might have done to my father's captains, before I married Elrond." She pulls up a chair. "I think I can help you."

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. "_You_, milady?"

"Yes, _me_," she answers. "What Lindir did is wrong, and I've been waiting for a chance like this ever since I found out that he was responsible for that rumor about Elrond."

Glorfindel looks shocked. "Lindir did that? I didn't think even _he_ would stoop that low."

I frown. "What rumor?"

Celebrían huffs. "Don't make me repeat it."

Glorfindel gives me a devious smile. "I'll tell you later."

"But that has nothing to do with this," says Celebrían, waving away Glorfindel's comment. "If we work together, then we can get this done. I can distract Elrond for you both, long enough for Erestor to get the recipe and herbs. Glorfindel, you can charm anyone into doing anything, so you can convince Meretheryn to poison Lindir's drink. We can meet in the kitchens in an hour, and by the banquet tonight, Lindir will regret ever toying with us."

Glorfindel stares for a few moments before returning her a sly grin. "As you wish, milady."

"But Lady Celebrían," I interrupt, suddenly feeling as if everything has gone completely out of control. "You want to help us get revenge on Lindir _and _Lord Elrond? Why would you do that?"

She smiles. "Well, for one thing, I have a score of my own to settle with Lindir, and this should be much more effective than a simple correction. Also, it will keep Elrond happy, because I know he likes to feel that his healing skills are actually helping someone."

I slowly shake my head in disbelief. This is surreal. By the time that all of this is over, _I_ might be the one spending a year or so in the healing chambers for insanity.

**Glorfindel.**

Well, this has been a most enlightening afternoon. Erestor's moods have been changing at an alarming rate: he rants at me, then sides with me (I hope), then looks horrified when Celebrían discovers his plot for poisoning Lindir, and now is simply staring at Celebrían and I as if we were insane. We are insane. We _must_ be.

I think it's a good thing that Celebrían has volunteered to help us. Surprising, though... And Lindir, well, he has no idea what's in for him. I'm beginning to feel sorry for– No, I'm not sorry. It will serve him right. He won't try his tricks on Erestor and me again.

This conversation has made several things clear to me. One: Erestor still hates me. Or else vaguely hinting comes naturally to him and his smug expression when I looked confused was completely coincidental. Two: I am definitely on dangerous territory, because if Erestor does begin thinking up a revenge on me, I'm doomed. I'll have to keep him distracted as best I can. Three: I need to get my hands on this Nolendil book. It's beginning to sound very interesting.

All right. I am charming. I am going to talk Meretheryn into poisoning – into _drugging_ Lindir. Should be easy. I expect that all good cooks love the thought of poi– drugging people.

I look at the plate that once held flakemeal biscuits. I seem to have polished them off during Erestor's plotting. This is as good an excuse as any to go wandering into the kitchen. I grab the dish and head in Meretheryn's direction.

Meretheryn is kneading bread, and her hands are covered in flour. When she sees me, she gives me a quick smile, and tells me were to put the plate. I volunteer to wash it for her, but to my relief she says I needn't. Then I turn to her, wondering how in Arda I'm supposed to ask her to drug Lindir. Erestor apparently thinks she'll be willing to do it. When he said _'_All we have to do is talk Meretheryn into slipping a bit of extra 'spice' into Lindir's drink… that should not be too difficult' was he saying that it would not be difficult for her to drug him, or it would not be difficult for me to talk her into doing it?

I hate it when Erestor is vague.

To my surprise, Meretheryn speaks first. "Lord Glorfindel," she says, "may I ask what happened to Lord Erestor? You said he had a shock."

"Um... well, yes. He had a shock," I say. "Several shocks, actually."

"What sort of shocks?" Meretheryn folds the bread over and over again, looking very professional.

"It's a long story." Glorfindel's Highly Creative Delaying Tactics Strike Again.

"I was wondering if he is going to be all right."

"He will be fine." I decide to tell her what happened, as it might help her understand my unusual request. " You see, Lord Elrond told him to find a book with me, and Erestor doesn't like me much, so he has not had a pleasant afternoon. And now he just found out that there was no such book in the first place. It came as a great shock."

Meretheryn almost looks reassured. Then she says, "But he had several shocks?"

I take a deep breath, and then say, as quickly as possible, "He also found out that I'd been sneaking through his bedroom. And that Lord Elrond thought our bickering was a bad influence on his children. And he isn't feeling very well." I lower my voice to a whisper, "Meretheryn, have you ever seen Lord Erestor demonstrate signs of... mental instability?"

Meretheryn looks _really_ worried now. I don't think my confession helped much. We look at each other for a moment. And then I cleverly make matters worse by saying, "Could you help us poison Lindir?"

Her mouth drops open. I had hoped that if I asked her while she was still reeling from the first batch of information, she'd be less likely to object. Now I see that this was not a good idea.

"Poison him?" she gasps.

"He was very nosy and has been giving poor Erestor a hard time," I say. At the moment, I am not feeling sorry for the conniving advisor, but it would help if I at least _looked_ sorry for him. "And we don't want to exactly poison Lindir, we want to drug him."

"Drug him? And why were you sneaking through Lord Erestor's bedroom? And what did you mean by 'mental instability'?" demands Meretheryn.

It takes a long time to tell Meretheryn the whole story, but I manage it. She was worried about Erestor, and she promises not to tell anyone about what happened this afternoon. The story finished, I ask her again if she would drug Lindir.

Her mouth twitches a little, and I can see that she's trying not to smile. "Lord Glorfindel, with respect, it sounds as if _you_ should be the one to get drugged."

"I know," I say contritely. "I've been behaving badly. But please don't drug me!"

"I won't, never fear" says Meretheryn, grinning. "If Lord Erestor decides to poison you next, he'll have to do it himself."

"Thanks for _that_ reassuring remark," I retort. "So you'll help us?" I look at her with big, blue eyes. Meretheryn knows what I'm doing though, and she just chuckles.

"I'll help you," she says. "Lindir has been very annoying of late."

Does Lindir know he's surrounded by enemies? I'd be very paranoid, were I him.

I fairly skip out of the kitchen. Everything is going surprisingly well! I wonder if Erestor has been able to get the herbs while Celebrían distracts Lord Elrond. I'm sure he's had no difficulties. If he were caught in the act, what would he say? "Glorfindel made me do it"?

Poor Erestor. Everyone's so mean to him. It's never his fault. He steals people's pens and then looks terrified when they come to reclaim him. He thinks up horrible plots for drugging harpists, and then looks guilty when Celebrían catches him at it. He seems to want to please everyone, except for me. He just wants me dead.

Why? What have I done? I avoid him most of the time! I don't seek him out and torment him. He obviously thinks that I'm the nasty, wicked Elf who's out to make his life miserable. I'm trying to prove otherwise, that I can be nice to him, and he's making it very difficult.

I'll have to be careful. He probably _will_ try poisoning me.

TBC


	8. Preparations

**Traditional Recipes for Disaster **

**by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor **

**Disclaimer: **Neither of us own anything pertaining to _Lord of the Rings_. The _nimringlas_ blossoms belong to **Ithiliel Silverquill**. And I forgot to mention in earlier chapters that Nolendil belongs to her too.

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**Erestor.**

I try to avoid people as I walk down the hallway. Not that this is really unusual, but now I am doing it consciously, instead of just by my nature.

Thankfully, there are not many people here anyway. Almost everyone seems to be in the dining hall, which is perfectly fine with me. Even the Elves that had been loitering around the conference room while Glorfindel and I talked are gone.

It does feel strange, though, to be sneaking through my own house. Is this how a criminal must feel? No… scratch that, I am not a criminal. Elrond is the one who began this mess, Lindir is the one who manipulated it for his own pleasure, and Glorfindel is the one who… well, who is constantly annoying. And invasive. And overbearing. And a hundred other things that I do not have time to mention.

I open the door to the conference room as quietly as I can. The book is sitting on the armrest of the chair, right where I left it. Ah, for once _something_ is going according to plan.

I glance around the room before I leave, remembering my "conversation" with Glorfindel. I am struck by a thought. Why did I say so much? I rarely talk with Glorfindel about anything personal, and I _never_ talk about Nin. How did Glorfindel convince me to talk that much?

I set those thoughts aside to stew over later and leave the room, tucking the book under my arm. I hope I do not look too suspicious.

I am so engrossed in looking casual and nonchalant that I do not see the Elfling in front of me until I very nearly step on him.

"Ressi!" he says, looking up at me with big, teary eyes. He is leaning back on his crutches, obviously trying to look helpless and pathetic. He _does_ look pathetic, but not in the sense of the word that he is hoping for.

"Yes, Elladan?" I answer frostily. Not only is he trying to manipulate me, but he insists on using that infantile nickname.

He looks down at the stairway in front of us. "I can't get down the stairs. Ada says I have to use crutches."

I refrain from commenting that the accident that resulted in his broken ankle was undoubtedly his fault, and that if he would only start being careful, he could avoid such pointless injuries. But instead I only say, "I am sorry to hear that."

He looks back up at me. "Will you help me?"

I do not have _time_ for this! The Lady can only keep Lord Elrond distracted for so long, and if I do not get those herbs, then our plan is useless.

"I think it would be a good idea if you just ask G—" I begin, and then stop myself. I had been about to say _I think it would be a good idea if you just ask Glorfindel for help_. Glorfindel is in the kitchens sweet-talking Meretheryn (poor woman), and even if Elladan managed to find him, it would be pointless by then to ask for help. I look around the hallways, to see if anyone else is there to help him, but it is deserted. I sigh. "Very well, child."

I pick Elladan up as carefully as I can, so as not to hurt either one of us—if I drop him, then I am sure Lord Elrond will hurt me. Badly. I make my way slowly down the stairs, trying to balance Elfling and book and crutches all at once. Elladan is clinging to my robe with one hand, which is fine, and my hair with the other hand, which is painful.

Finally I reach the bottom, and with a sigh of relief, I start to set Elladan down. But before I can, he grabs me around the neck, very nearly choking me.

"Thank you," he says, smiling up at me. "I knew you would help me. 'Rohir said that you would say to go away, but I knew you wouldn't."

I grimace. What a compliment. "Thank you for standing up for me," I say.

He shrugs as I lower him to the ground and help him steady himself on the crutches. "I knew you wouldn't, because Ada would give you a mean look if you didn't. Like the time Glorfy asked you to help him write a report on the warriors and you said you were too busy."

What wonderful reputation I have. During that incident, I _had_ been busy. Busy avoiding Glorfindel, among other things.

"Bye, Ressi!" Elladan calls, shuffling away gaily on his crutches. I indulge in a glare at his back. The twins spend too much time around Glorfindel, if you ask me. He must be teaching them how to effectively insult me.

I shake my head and proceed to the herb closet. I should be using my time trying to accomplish my plan, rather than dreaming up ways to get back at Glorfindel and the twins. I still have yet to thank them properly for the bucket of cold water that was waiting above my doorway this morning, however.

Lord Elrond is nowhere to be seen, so Lady Celebrían must have done her work. I tiptoe over to the herb closet, open the door, and then turn to Nolendil's recipe.

I am glad that at least Lord Elrond is organized about how he stores his herbs, and that no one with organizational skills comparable to Glorfindel's is responsible. I am able to find the herbs that I need quickly.

I am about to close the door to the herb closet, when suddenly I notice a bundle of flowers on a high shelf. They look like _nimringlas_ blossoms!

_Nimringlas_, as anyone who has taught mischievous Elflings can explain, is a very potent herb. It has very little flavor, only a slight sweetness. A dose of just one petal can cure some maladies, but a dose of two petals has a few interesting side effects: dizziness, blurred vision, and… sneezing.

I reach up to the shelf and take just one blossom. This will come in handy, I think. I drop the _nimringlas_ blossom in my pocket and close the herb closet quietly. I look around the room once more, just to be sure that I am alone, and then leave.

I avoid everyone in the hallways again. It would not do to be caught at _this_ stage of the game.

**Glorfindel.**

I enter my bedroom cautiously, just in case someone is lurking inside it. Usually I'd be worried about Elladan and Elrohir hiding in my bed or wardrobe, but today I wonder if I'll find Erestor poking through my papers, or Lindir stealing my clothing, or Lord Elrond himself deciding that maybe I'd be friends with Erestor if he throws my weaponry out my window.

When I consider the fact that Erestor has been in my room, I see it rather differently. It must have been quite a shock for him to discover how many things can end up on someone's floor. My bedroom looks like a tip. I pick up a few arrows, twirl one between my fingers, and look around. I should tidy this place.

I wade over to my bed, and try to figure out how the sheets go on. Usually I just pile them up on one side, but I have a vague recollection that they should be tucked in under the mattress.

Tucking sheets turns out to be a dangerous activity. As I attempt to put the corners of the sheets under the mattress, the mattress attempts to fall on my head and pin me to the bedframe. I wrestle with my bed for a few minutes, before smoothing down the blankets and stepping back to admire my handiwork.

It's a little lumpy, but looks rather good for a first try.

I pick my clothes off the floor, and either hang them in my closet or fold them as neatly as I can. I discover a few interesting articles underneath the first layer of debris: a dagger, a fork, and a pot of ink being the most surprising. I could have accidentally crippled myself!

I clear my desk of a few old candle stubs, a dish of dead broccoli, and a report that I apparently started writing four years ago. Finally I scrape spots of wax off the desktop, take my quill pen out of my pocket, and place it reverently in a prominent position. Perhaps Erestor took it because it was half-hidden by my collection of artwork, and he did not realize how important it is to me. Perhaps I had hidden it behind the artwork because I was afraid to look at it and remember my father and my days in Valinor. I shall not hide it any more.

After more than an hour of sorting, rearranging, and frenzied cleaning, I collapse on the chair I discovered under a pile of laundry. I have found seven books. I did not know I had so many in my bedroom! I open the first one, feeling a bit curious. Why did I borrow this one from the library?

I remember after scanning the first page. I borrowed this particular book because I thought it would make a good paperweight. It's nice and heavy, but quite small and square. According to the title page, it is _A Thesis on the Most Curious Striped Horse of Far Harad._ Apparently some dedicated Elf spent two hundred years stalking a herd of black-and-white-striped horses. Fascinating. I did not know that such creatures existed, but then, I have visited Far Harad only briefly.

After about twenty-five pages, I become aware that my bedroom is growing dark. The banquet will be starting soon! It is to take place after sunset, when the stars have come out. Night is the time when Elves think back to what the world was like in the beginning, before the sun and moon were made. It is an important time of day.

I leap to my feet, and put the book on my desk, marking my spot with the fork. I fling on my nicest robe, and stand in front of my mirror, braiding my hair away from my face as quickly as possible. I gaze at my reflection for a moment. Do I look guilty? Do I look capable of concocting wicked schemes to drug poor harpists? Do I look anything like Erestor?

No, I look completely clueless and innocent. Except I don't want to look clueless; I would rather look wise but innocent. Is that possible? I frown wisely at my reflection. There. Much better.

I open the door and nearly walk into Lord Elrond, who is standing by the door about to knock on it. "Glorfindel!" he says.

I recover quickly from my shock. "Lord Elrond!" I squeak.

"Ah, I see you are ready to attend the banquet," says Elrond.

"I am," I reply. And then, since he doesn't seem to be about to go off into a lengthy spiel, I ask, "Is something wrong?"

"Er... not wrong exactly," says Lord Elrond nervously, "but something unexpected has come up."

Some _very_ unexpected things are going to come up soon. I wonder if Lord Elrond caught Erestor rifling through his herb cabinet. Should I confess quickly and get it over with? I open my mouth to say, "I can explain everything", but Elrond cuts me off with an explanation of his own.

"Some mortals have arrived," says Elrond. "They are traders who have been traveling for some time."

"They will be attending the banquet, perhaps?" I ask.

Elrond smiles. "Yes. We could not turn them away. I do not think they will make trouble."

"That's good, though one can never tell with mortals," I say. Then I remember that Elrond has mortal blood in him too. "With _most_ mortals," I add rapidly. "Some mortals are very well-behaved, I imagine."

Elrond nods. "True."

"Is there anything I can do for you, Lord Elrond?" I ask politely, wondering why he showed up to tell me this.

"Could you take the mortals to the dining hall for me? Do you not speak several mortal languages?"

"I do." I have traveled around Arda for years, and languages are one thing that I learn easily. "I shall certainly take the mortals to the dining hall."

"Good. I knew I could rely on you."

Elrond turns to go, and I say, in my most apologetic tone, "And Lord Elrond, I am very, very sorry, but Lord Erestor and I have been unable to find your book. Will you please give us more time? We'll find it as soon as we can."

Elrond looks at me guiltily, and then, with a weak smile, says, "Don't worry about the book, Glorfindel. You can take your time looking for it."

I nod. "Erestor and I hate to inconvenience you," I say humbly.

Elrond is twisting the sleeve of his robe into a crumpled ball while trying to look relaxed. "Please," he practically begs me, "don't worry about it at all."

"All right," I say cheerfully, feeling bad for teasing him so much. I sweep an elaborate bow and hurry merrily through the halls to find the mortals.

The traders are congregated in the hallway. They do look like decent mortals, and, like most outsiders who enter Imladris, they have a half-awed, half-stunned look in their faces. They stare at me when I enter the room, and I smile brightly at them. I like mortals. They are vastly interesting creatures.

It turns out that they speak a rather obscure mortal language, one rather similar to Westron, but different enough to be tricky. Fortunately, I speak it fluently, since I spent several years patrolling their region of the world. I soon make the traders feel comfortable, and when I ask them if they would like to eat with us, they say that they would be delighted to do so.

As I proceed towards the dining hall, mortals in tow, a thought occurs to me. It is not exactly a happy thought. Meretheryn will have drugged Lindir's drink by now, all being well. At the banquet, if Erestor is correct, he'll start acting as though he has gone insane.

What, in the name of Elbereth, are the mortals going to think of all this?

I answer my own question. They are going to think that _the Elves of Imladris are bonkers_. And then they'll wander around Middle-Earth, trading things with people and talking about the time they visited Imladris and one of the Elves went mad right before their eyes.

I halt nervously before one of the doors to the dining hall, and the mortals look at me in confusion. Should I warn them about what's going to happen? Or should I just act clueless?

I'll act clueless. I smile at them again, politely tell them not to stick their hands in the stew-pot, and then open the door wide.

Dinner is about to be served.

TBC


	9. Erestor and Glorfindel Strike Back

**Traditional Recipes for Disaster **

**by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor **

**Disclaimer: **Neither of us own anything pertaining to _Lord of the Rings_.

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE**

**Erestor.**

I give the herbs and recipe to Meretheryn and then dash back to my room to change. People are beginning to gather in the dining hall, and I should already be there! On time is ten minutes early, as my father used to say, and it would not do to be late. Especially since tonight we are going to poison—er, _drug_—Lindir. No, it would not be a good idea to be late at all.

I rummage through my wardrobe and quickly find the robe that I wear to formal dinners: dark blue velvet with silver trim. Simple, yet elegant.

I change quickly, brush my hair, and then hurry back to the dining hall, making sure that I take the _nimringlas_ blossom from my pocket. I will need it later on.

The dining hall is full of people. There are a group of traders, conversing back and forth in accented Westron. Glorfindel is sitting straight in his chair, looking around the room. If I did not know that he was involved in a dastardly plot, then I must say that I would not suspect him. However, since I know that he is involved in a dastardly plot, it is obvious to me that he is practically on pins and needles. Do I look that suspicious?

There is an empty chair next to him, so I sit down. Dinner is about to be served, so the conversation is dying down.

He looks over at me and gives a little start. "Erestor."

I lift an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I didn't see you sit down."

I start to push back my chair. "Were you saving this seat for someone?"

"No, stay," he says. Then he gives a wry grin and lowers his voice. "We're partners in crime, so I suppose that we should stick together, right?"

I avoid looking him in the eyes. "You are not making this any easier, Glorfindel."

He snickers. "Forgive me."

I decide not to answer. It is hard to tell whether Glorfindel is being sarcastic or not, so I shall simply assume that he is. It is the safest solution.

Elrond begins the dinner with a short speech that no one listens to, and then the cooks bring in the food and drink. I cringe inwardly as Meretheryn sets Lindir's goblet of _miruvor_ down with a glance in my direction. Does she have to be so obvious about it? Everyone is going to think that something is wrong…

Suddenly I hear Glorfindel's voice next to me. "Erestor?"

"Yes?" I answer without looking up.

"Is there a particular reason that you are trying to tear the fringe off the tablecloth?"

I look up at him in confusion, then look down at the tablecloth. I must have been absentmindedly tugging at the fringe. I put down my hands. "No, not really."

He smiles. "That I should live to see the day when _you_ get fidgety…"

"Quiet," I hiss, as the Elf-maiden to my left asks me to pass the bread. She looks at me for a moment, her face stricken, and then I realize my mistake. I pick up the plate of bread and hand it to her. "I was not speaking to you, miss."

She gives me an insulted glare and turns to the person on her other side to start a conversation.

Glorfindel elbows me in the ribs, and I turn to him with an irritated glance. "What?"

He lifts an eyebrow. "No wonder you are so popular. Everyone thinks that you are disgusted with them."

"Hmph," I answer. "At least they are not under any false impressions."

He blinks once and then takes a sip of his drink. "You should try being easier to get along with."

"Thank you for the advice," I say darkly. I look around the table. Everyone is either talking, eating, or drinking. A small group of minstrels is clustered at the back, playing light music that adds a pleasant background to the light conversation.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. It is the Elf-maiden to my left again.

"Lord Erestor, would you mind handing me the salt?" There is a cautious edge to her voice, as if she thinks that I am going to bite her head off.

I sigh and pick up the salt. "Not at all, milady." I hand it to her, and she takes it with a murmured "thank you."

Glorfindel chuckles. "Not bad for a first try. Next time, maybe you could even smile."

I shoot him a glare. "Enough, Lord Glorfindel." Yes, he must be where the twins learned how to effectively insult me. I finger the _nimringlas_ blossom in my pocket. Wait for the right moment, Erestor…

Lindir still has not touched his drink. At the moment, he is engaged in lively conversation with a flirtatious Elf-maiden beside him. I swallow and begin to stir my dish of stew, trying to keep an eye on Lindir and look casual at the same time. Does he know what is going on? Is he trying to make me suffer?

Glorfindel elbows me in the ribs again. "Erestor," he whispers, "if you are trying to be subtle, then you are failing miserably."

"So are you." I glance around at the other guests, suddenly feeling nervous. Is it true?

The young Elf to Glorfindel's right asks him a question about whetstones, apparently to continue an earlier conversation, and Glorfindel sets down his drink and turns to talk to him.

I take a small sip of my own _miruvor_ and make another careful observation of everyone else to make sure that no one is watching me. Silently, I break two petals of the _nimringlas_ blossom off in my pocket, then crumble them between my fingers.

Glorfindel is completely involved in his whetstone conversation, and everyone else is either eating or talking. No one is paying any attention to me at all.

There is a small dish of butter behind Glorfindel's goblet. With one motion that I hope is subtle and quick, I drop the powder into the clear _miruvor_ as I reach for the butter.

Once I draw back my arm, I try to act as if nothing is unusual. I simply spread butter on my piece of bread, set down the dish, and then risk a glance around the room. No one is looking at me strangely, and Glorfindel is still animatedly talking with the young Elf, so apparently no one noticed.

I look back down at my bowl of stew. Am I actually supposed to eat? Valar, I am nervous… uncommonly so. How did the Elves in Nolendil's account manage to remain so calm when they poisoned the ambassador? Let alone the Elflings in my classes whenever they tried to trick me…

Suddenly there is an uproar on the other side of the table. Everyone looks up, startled, even Glorfindel.

I am staring directly at Lindir and his visibly empty glass.

**Glorfindel.**

Lindir's goblet is empty; he must be drugged by now. I continue to speak with the warrior beside me, trying at the same time to watch the harpist out of the corner of my eye. Erestor, who is sitting beside me, practically radiates anxiety. He must have plotted lots of revenges, but I do not think he has carried many of them out.

Lindir now appears to be completely discombobulated. Then he begins laughing quietly to himself. I continue to listen to the warrior's monologue on whetstones (something that he seems to feel strongly about), nodding and looking Wise and Innocent. At the same time, I'm nearly breathless with suspense.

Lindir stands up, grins confusedly for a moment, and then, shunning his chair, clambers up onto the table. Now is a good time to notice what is going on. I turn around with a gasp that is only half-feigned, as Lindir loudly asks the maiden, "What on Middle-Earth are you _wearing_? It looks as though you've wrapped a _skunk_ around your neck."

I choke. The maiden is wearing a striking black and white scarf, though it makes the think of the horses of Harad, not skunks. She is also wearing an expression of pure outrage. I do not think she likes Lindir anymore.

Lindir kicks a bowl of fruit off the table, sweeps a low bow to his horrified audience, and begins talking. "What fine weather we're having for this time of night. Why are you all looking at me like that? I'm here to tell you a _story_. You see, there was a Half-Elf, and his name was Lord Elrond. Actually, his name still is Lord Elrond. And one day he was walking along in Lothlorien and he saw a bird. The bird was called Gorelen, but that's not important. In fact, not even the bird is important. This story is about Lord Elrond."

Lindir briefly halts his monologue, and half-dances along the table top, nimbly avoiding flower arrangements and platters of food. The Elves are all staring at him, aghast. I realize that I'm hardly breathing, and that I'm chewing my knuckles with excitement. Elrond's mouth has dropped open, and he's standing by his chair, apparently unable to move. The mortals are gawking at the spectacle, cutlery held in midair. As for Erestor, he's leaning forward in his chair, clutching the table with both hands, obviously torn between horror and delight at the success of his plan.

"Lord Elrond was in _love_," continues Lindir. "He wanted to impress Lady Celebrían."

It seems as though I will not have to explain the Elrond-rumor to Erestor, since Lindir himself is telling it to us. I sit back in my chair, and nibble on a pasty.

Lindir picks up three apples, attempts to juggle them, and ends up dropping them all on my dumbstruck lieutenant. "What was I saying?" he asks us all, frowning slightly. Elrond recovers his composure and leaps at the harpist, but Lindir skips merrily away from his frantic lord, bows again, and goes on. "Lord Elrond wanted to _impress_ Celebrían. But," (here Lindir sniggers) "he didn't quite manage to. In fact, it so happened that he ended up falling face-first in the Nimrodel." (At this point, perhaps to Elrond's relief, the story becomes slurred and incoherent, but the words 'much amusement' and 'angry marchwardens', and 'had gone fishing' can be made out with difficulty. At last he seems tired of the story changes the subject.) "You!" (Lindir turns on a dignified Elf-Lord) "You were the one who said your father-in-law is an ugly old geezer! And you," (he spins around and points at a now-cringing maiden) "you told your little brother that there was a warg in his closet, and now he refuses to change his clothes!"

Erestor glances at me and I grin. "Congratulations, Lord Erestor, on thinking up a perfect revenge," I say, with a gracious nod. I reach for my goblet. "Lord Elrond will certainly be busy healing him."

Erestor smiles his wicked smile. "I would not be surprised if Lord Elrond keeps Lindir in the infirmary longer than necessary."

"Or if Lord Elrond _makes_ a longer stay necessary," I add. I'm about to take a drink, but Lindir has grown bored with humiliating the various Elves of Imladris, and moves on.

"And now I am going to sing a song," announces Lindir with alacrity, eluding Elrond's grasp once more. "It is a song about Lord Glorfindel and Lord Erestor, and it is called _The Lay of the Lunatics_."

The two of us leap to our feet as one. Erestor looks a bit panic-stricken, and I suppose I appear the same. Elrond makes another snatch at Lindir's robes. Celebrían has a mildly interested expression on her face. The other Elves still don't know what to do. _They_, at least, think that Lindir is insane.

I run forward, clutch at Lindir's ankle, but miss. Erestor, evidently realizing that sinceI'm going to make a fool of myself, he might as well simply watch, is standing by the table, looking amused. I lunge at the harpist again and manage to grab him by the wrist.

Lindir bursts into song as I haul him bodily from the room.

"Oh dear! I do not know what happened!" cries Elrond, dashing to where I am attempting to get Lindir quiet. I am also trying to be optimistic. _Probably_ the other Elves didn't hear the part of the song about 'the half-witted, scatterbrained Vanya'. They were in shock. They'll forget.

But maybe they'll remember the part about Erestor... such an apt description...

Erestor materializes in the hallway, still looking very entertained. He watches as Elrond tries to calm down Lindir, and then sidles over to me. "That went very well," he comments.

I nod, and then notice he's carrying a goblet of wine. In fact, it's _my _goblet! Does Erestor have some weird obsession with stealing my things? "That's mine," I tell him.

"What?" Erestor looks at me blankly.

"You're holding my goblet, aren't you?"

He stares at it as though he's never seen it before. "Oh, so I am," he says. "I apologize. I must have snatched it up in the excitement of the moment." He hands me the goblet with a bright smile. (Seeing Erestor smile so much is scaring me.) "Shall we accompany Lord Elrond to the infirmary?" he asks.

I grin. "Yes, let's."

TBC


	10. Fun in the Infirmary

**Traditional Recipes for Disaster **

**by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor **

**Disclaimer: **Neither of us own anything pertaining to _Lord of the Rings_.

**Dedication:** This chapter is dedicated to all the drafts of this story that the two of us lost between us. We managed without them, but it wasn't fun.

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN**

**Erestor. **

Glorfindel and I rush to the infirmary, close behind Lord Elrond and Lindir. The dining room is still in upheaval, and the Elves in the hallway seem startled by the sight of Lord Elrond practically dragging Lindir to the infirmary. Lindir's eyes are still glazed, there is a wide grin on his face, and he is babbling like a lunatic under his breath.

I cannot say that I blame the Elves for being startled. I would probably have been startled, too.

Finally we reach the infirmary. Lindir seems to recognize the room, and when we reach it, his eyes get wide and he begins to swing at Lord Elrond. Fortunately for Lord Elrond, Lindir is a harpist, not a warrior, and therefore he has no aim whatsoever.

"Lindir, calm down," says Lord Elrond. He looks unsettled, which is, I suppose, understandable.

"No!" squeaks Lindir.

Glorfindel and I stand off to the side, watching with no small amusement as a handful of Lord Elrond's apprentice healers come in to help get Lindir under control.

Glorfindel leans over to whisper in my ear. "Should we offer to help, do you think?"

"We are innocent bystanders," I reply. "We know nothing. We are merely curious." I watch the struggle for a moment and then shrug. "After all, they seem to have the situation under control."

"More or less," agrees Glorfindel, chuckling.

The healers finally manage to get Lindir onto the cot. By now, Lindir's struggles have lessened. Perhaps he is exhausted after all that dancing on the tablecloth.

I feel heat slowly rising on my face. _The Lay of the Lunatics_, indeed! I am no lunatic, and I am _certainly_ not what he said I was. Glorfindel may be a "half-witted, scatterbrained Vanya," but I am _not_ an "awkward, persnickety Noldorin prig." Lindir's mouth is much bigger than his intellect.

After sending the healers away, Lord Elrond glances up and sees Glorfindel and me standing by the wall. He swallows. "Is there something you two need?"

Glorfindel smiles calmly. "Nothing at all, milord. We are just concerned for Lindir's health."

Lindir looks up from the cot. His eyes widen when he sees us. "Glorfindel! Erestor!" he shrieks, then looks at Lord Elrond. "It was them! They did it! They know about it! It was them, all them! I had nothing to do with it!"

Glorfindel and I look up at Lord Elrond, our faces innocent.

"I don't know what he's talking about, milord," says Glorfindel.

Lord Elrond nods, looking unconvinced, and turns to his herb closet. He opens the door and rummages around, then pauses, a look of confusion on his face. "I was sure that I had more of that," he murmurs to himself.

Then his face goes ashen.

He turns back around, looking at me and Glorfindel. I can see the consternation on his face deepen as all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place in his mind. "Glorfindel… Erestor…"

I lift an eyebrow, a calm smile on my face. "Yes, milord?"

Lord Elrond turns back to his herbs. "Nothing." I see him take a few herbs and, his hands shaking, he goes to mix them together. It looks like the ingredients for a sleeping draft.

Lindir has begun to babble again, but Glorfindel shoots him a glare and he falls abruptly silent.

Lord Elrond mixes the ingredients together, stirring them into a cup of greenish liquid. "About that book, Erestor, Glorfindel," he begins. "I realized just recently that I no longer need it."

Suddenly I have a flash of inspiration. I pick up a nearby book, one that just so happens to be a book of herb-lore, and hold it up so that the title is hidden. "Do you mean this book, milord?" I say.

Lord Elrond's face moves from confusion, to disbelief, then back to confusion. "But it doesn't… I mean, how did you… but I thought that it didn't…"

Glorfindel raises one golden eyebrow. "Yes?"

Lord Elrond shakes his head, then absentmindedly glances back down at what he is doing. He takes another measure of the ingredients and then stirs it in.

I pause. What is he doing? He already mixed in the ingredients. Is he making it doubly potent on purpose?

Just then, Lindir begins to panic. He apparently saw what Lord Elrond did, and thinks that he is going to be drugged into the next Age.

Lord Elrond finishes mixing the draft and then places it on a nearby table, next to a half-empty cup of tea, to go and calm Lindir's flailing. But now Lindir, completely mad, reaches the end of his strength. At the sight of Lord Elrond marching grimly for him, he falls backward into the pillow in a dead faint.

Next to me, Glorfindel starts to laugh, but I elbow him in the ribs.

Lord Elrond stops walking, looks at the comatose Lindir, and shrugs. He spares a glance up at Glorfindel and me – he looks nervous, almost as much as I must have at the banquet – and walks back to the table, presumably to finish off his tea. It is probably tepid by now, but Lord Elrond does not look like he cares.

I feel Glorfindel tense next to me. Both of us watch, stunned, as Elrond reaches for his newly mixed, doubly-potent sleeping draught, his hand closing around it instead of his cup of tea.

I start to reach forward to stop Lord Elrond, but Glorfindel shoves me back against the wall.

Lord Elrond puts the cup to his lips and drains it in one quick motion. He immediately gives an expression of disgust – I feel quite sure that his sleeping drafts do not taste like tea – and then frowns. His eyes glaze over and he slumps back against his herb closet, sliding down it until he is sitting on the floor. He is fast asleep.

Glorfindel and I look at one another, still stunned, but then Glorfindel grins.

"What do you think of that?" he says. "You didn't even have to plan it. He drugged himself."

With that, Glorfindel gives the contents of his goblet a little swirl, then brings it to his lips.

I am overcome by an intense feeling of irony. I could not have planned this better myself.

**Glorfindel.**

My wine tastes different than it did before. It is sweeter. At first I consider this to be merely strange, and then I realize, completely belatedly, that I have just swigged down whatever Erestor decided to add to my drink. No wonder he was beaming at me! I'm probably going to drop dead, or turn blue, or, worst of all, end up like Lindir...

Erestor hates me so much, maybe _all_ of those things will happen to me, except in reverse order.

At first nothing really dire happens. My vision has gone a bit funny, and I blink pathetically a few times. I am rather thankful for this development, actually, because at least I won't have to watch Erestor gloat over me... His opinion of my intelligence at this point doesn't bear thinking about.

Then I try to take a deep breath, and I sneeze instead.

Oh no... not even Erestor would be this cruel...

I sneeze twice, breathe, sneeze three times very rapidly, breathe again, sneeze again, and then open my eyes. My vision has cleared slightly, and I can see Erestor looking absolutely delighted, like he can't believe his good luck. I briefly consider throttling him, and then I start sneezing again.

Four sneezes later, I become aware of footsteps in the hall, and of voices speaking gruffly. Can't be Elves. (Sneeze.) Must be the mortals. (Sneeze.) They must (sneeze) be wondering if Lindir is all right (sneeze) and they're (sneeze) coming to check. Jolly decent (sneeze) of them, I must (sneeze) say. (Sneeze.)

A mortal enters the infirmary, and his eyes widen. He looks at Lindir, who sprawled in his bed, unconscious, a look of panic still on his face, and at Lord Elrond, who is lying prone on the floor, cup in his hand. The mortal appears shocked by the sight. I think he thinks Lord Elrond is dead.

Erestor sees the mortal, and frowns a little. Then he smiles at me. By now, I have stumbled dramatically against the wall, and am holding onto a column with one hand. My other hand is clapped firmly over my mouth, in a desperate attempt to keep the sneezes in. "Since you are temporarily incapacitated," he comments, "I will deal with these mortals myself."

I would glare at him, but I am too relieved by the word 'temporarily' to be really hostile. I'm not going to be sneezing for the rest of my life! I'll recover eventually! I am so glad that Elrond doesn't know what's going on, or else he would have drugged me too. I sneeze again.

Erestor strolls forward to the mortals, and gives them all a polite, dignified nod. My ears prick forward expectantly. I wonder how on Middle-Earth he's going to explain all this. If he can soothe them, he'll deserve a medal, even if he does poison poor innocent Vanyar.

Then a strange thing happens. Erestor starts talking. The problem is, he's not using the mortals' language! He thinks that they speak Westron, which is an understandable mistake, but they don't! Their language is similar to Westron, but it's not the same thing!

I sneeze with excitement.

To the mortals, the resulting speech must sound like gibberish, the ravings of an Elf gone slightly crazy. The fact that Erestor looks so serious and diplomatic must make them even more uneasy. They take a few steps away from him. Erestor becomes disconcerted by their response. I sneeze a few times from my corner.

Erestor tries to tell them that Lord Elrond is not dead, but to them the words must sound very much like, "My aunt has many cows."

The mortals nod, trying to placate him. They are obviously wondering if he'll turn savage.

I snigger, and sneeze three times as a result. Poor Erestor. If I weren't temporarily incapacitated, I would go and help him.

"Hungry ice apples ever merry," Erestor says solemnly. He's getting worried, though, I can tell. He's not dense. He realizes that he is in trouble. The horrified expressions on the mortals' faces is probably a very good clue.

I sneeze one more time, hold my breath for a few moments, just to make sure the sneezes are all gone, and then straighten my robes. I feel sorry for Erestor. He's standing there, looking slightly helpless and confused, though I can only tell that because he is frowning. Such a look does not suit him. I prefer him when he looks furious, scheming, or even triumphant.

"Perhaps (sneeze) I should handle this after (sneeze) all, Lord Erestor," I say.

He refuses to meet my eyes when I come over, but at least he steps aside. I bow to the bewildered mortals and explain that the situation is under control. I explain that Lindir is not mad, and that Lord Elrond is not dead, and that Lord Erestor is not a halfwit. I only sneeze twice during the whole explanation.

The mortals look at me thankfully, and I smile at them. "I am very sorry that you had such a traumatic time," I say, "but thank you for (sneeze) your concern for our lord."

They glance at Lord Elrond, and then shuffle around guiltily. Now they are embarrassed for panicking. I reassure them, and then invite them to return for desert. Once I mention that almond pudding will be served, they seem pleased, and as I lead them back to the dining hall, they begin talking and laughing quietly amongst themselves. I think that after the initial shock, they were quite amused by the proceedings, and then they felt bad for finding it so funny while everyone else was goggling at Lindir in shock and consternation.

Well, now they know that it was really all just some bizarre Elvish form of entertainment.

I come back to the infirmary a few minutes later, but as I suspected, Erestor is gone. I drag Lord Elrond to a bed and manage to bundle him in. I check on Lindir, and he's still out cold. Then I slip out of the infirmary, lock the door, and pocket the key.

I set off to find Erestor.

TBC


	11. Suspicions

**Traditional Recipes for Disaster **

**by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor **

**Disclaimer: **Neither of us own anything pertaining to _Lord of the Rings_.

**

* * *

**

CHAPTER ELEVEN

**Erestor. **

I do not return to the dining hall. I was not really hungry to begin with, and now... Valar, I am such an idiot!

I open the door to my room, shut it soundly behind me, and drop into my desk chair. What did I do wrong? The mortals' language certainly sounded like common Westron, but when I tried to speak to them, they looked at me as if I was a babbling lunatic!

I glance at the half-finished paper on my desk. It is entitled _On the Various Dialects of Westron_. I had found an obscure volume detailing many different forms of dialectal Westron, and had undertaken a small project on the subject. A lot of help that was. I reach for the parchment, crumble it into a ball, and pitch it into the fire. There is something intensely satisfying about watching the edges turn black, then orange, then gray. The hours of work are reduced to ash in mere seconds, and I cannot really say that I care.

At least they are mortals. Perhaps it is awful of me to think like this, but at least someday they will die and the memory of my idiocy will die with them.

No, wait… Glorfindel knows. Valar, I am ruined.

I stand up and start pacing around the room. What have I done to warrant such a day? First the twins' pranks, then the assignment from Lord Elrond, then searching with Glorfindel, then finding out that Lord Elrond had deceived me because I argued too much with Glorfindel, then ranting at Glorfindel, then conspiring with Glorfindel and Lady Celebrían, then watching Lindir make a fool of himself, then seeing Lord Elrond drug himself, then watching Glorfindel sneeze himself half to death, then looking like a halfwit in front of foreign traders, now pacing around my room while my latest project smolders in the hearth.

I flop back down in the desk chair.

Suddenly I hear a knock at my door. "Erestor?"

"What?" I answer without looking up. I pick up my pen. I might as well get some work done.

The door opens and Glorfindel's face pokes in. "Ah. There you are."

"Here I am."

He frowns. "Is something bothering you?"

I throw down my pen. "Perhaps something is!"

He winces, slips into the room, and shuts the door behind himself.

"Perhaps I am bothered when in a single day I am tortured, lied to, laughed at, humiliated, and made to look like a halfwit! Perhaps I am bothered when _you_ pick on me, laugh at me, and invade my privacy!" I pause to catch my breath. "Perhaps that _bothers_ me!"

He bites his lip. "Well, you certainly have _reasons_ to be upset. But that doesn't mean that you have to be."

I narrow my eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Laugh at it." He takes a seat in the armchair next to my fireplace. "This whole situation is incredibly ironic, isn't it? In the course of this day, you have managed to fool the mortal traders, get revenge on Lindir, conspire with Lady Celebrían, frighten Lord Elrond into drugging himself, and trick me with the oldest Elfling prank in history!" He chuckles. "Who knew that you could be so devious?"

"Deviousness is not the quality that I would like to be known for," I put in darkly. "Besides, what would it matter? The traders think that I have lost my mind completely, and Lindir will be babbling about everything all over Imladris as soon as he wakes up."

Instead of answering, Glorfindel just leans back in his chair and looks at me.

I shift uncomfortably. Glorfindel's stare is... unsettling. Usually, it is easy to think of him as simply an annoying Vanya, the golden Elf beloved by all of Imladris. But when he stares at me like that, I am reminded that he is not just Glorfindel, but Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin. He is easily five times my age, and he has somehow developed the same ability that my father and brother had: their stare makes me feel petty and pathetic, like a silly squawking bluebird. As if they could see through me as easily as if I were made of glass.

"Stop pushing us away, Erestor," Glorfindel says after a few minutes.

I turn back to my paperwork, eager to break that awful, piercing stare. "Who says that _I _am the one doing the pushing, Lord Glorfindel?"

"I did, and you know it's true." He sighs. "I'm only trying to help you. The only reason that people believe things about you that aren't true is because you never give them reason to believe anything else. You hardly ever talk to us except to correct our grammar or ask us to please pass the salt, and—"

"And to be _very_ honest, I prefer it that way," I say, cutting him off.

He shuts his mouth and looks at me, then sighs. "Suit yourself, Erestor."

I nod absently and shuffle a few papers on my desk. Then I turn to face him. "But there _is_ something that I want to discuss with you."

"And that is...?"

"The mortals. They are obviously here to discuss trade, since they are traders, and with Lord Elrond unconscious, they cannot make the agreements with him. As soon as the banquet is over, they will probably want to discuss some sort of treaty."

He shrugs. "Well, you're the one that usually works out that kind of thing anyway."

"Yes, but I need your help."

"For what?"

"I need you to translate. I cannot speak their language, but you can. Will you help me?"

He smiles. "Of course. They should be almost finished by now, actually. As I finished explaining everything to them, the cooks were serving almond pudding for dessert."

I stand. "Then it would be a good idea to go now."

He follows me as I leave my room and go down to the dining hall.

**Glorfindel.**

I cannot help but feel elated as I follow Erestor back to the dining hall. He actually asked for my help! I like being helpful. I rather admire the way Erestor was able to talk about being unable to speak the mortals' language without wincing. He's handling all this quite well.

We enter the dining hall, and nearly all the Elves remaining in the room turn on me and begin frantically asking questions.

"Lord Glorfindel, has Lindir gone mad?"

"Lord Glorfindel, where is Lord Elrond?"

"What is going on, Lord Glorfindel?"

I raise a hand for silence, and the room goes quiet in a very satisfying manner. Then I announce, "I apologize for the disruption of this banquet. It seems that Lindir has temporarily gone mad, but it's nothing serious. Lord Elrond is dealing with the problem, the situation is completely under control, and there is plenty of almond pudding for everyone. Please, do not worry."

Most of the Elves seem sated by this brief speech. I can see the mortals sneaking up to the dessert table for seconds. The almond pudding of Imladris should be famous throughout Middle-Earth, it's so good.

"So, what should we do now?" I ask. "Would you like to try some of the almond pudding?"

Erestor shakes his head. "No."

I look at the dessert table. There's not just almond pudding there. I can see pastries drizzled with honey, marzipan of different colors shaped into various fruits, and a long, dark loaf sprinkled with sugar and filled with cream. My mouth waters. How could Erestor not be hungry? "I am getting a bite to eat," I tell him. All my meals today have been interrupted.

I stroll over to the dessert table with my usual nonchalance, grab a plate and put a sticky pastry on it. The pastry looks lonely. I add a dollop of almond pudding. Then, barely suppressing a squeak of delight, I cut myself a generous slice of the loaf.

I meander back to where Erestor is standing. He looks at my plate and raises his eyebrows with his aggravating supercilious air. I stop licking the cream off my fingers and give him a rather guilty grin. "I'm hungry," I explain.

"I can see that." Erestor watches as I sit down and start munching my pastry. The outside is crispy and sweet, but the inside is very soft and practically melts in my mouth. Meretheryn has truly outdone herself this time.

"Would you like to try some marzipan?" I ask. "Or a piece of this bread?"

Erestor sits down. "No, thank you." He's back in one of his sulky moods again. And after my profound speech on pushing people away, too. I thought it had gone down well, after he asked for help, but now he's regressed to staring at the table and thinking gloomy Erestor-thoughts.

"_Something_ good must have happened to you today," I remark. He'd made his day sound absolutely awful, but surely it couldn't have been that bad. I am sure the 'tortured' part must have been an exaggeration.

Erestor thinks for a moment, just to raise my hopes, and then says, "No."

The pastry finished, I sample some of the almond pudding. It's perfect; not too sweet at all. I hand Erestor a little marzipan apple. "Here. Try this."

Erestor holds the apple, looking at it blankly. He takes a tentative bite. He carefully places the apple on a napkin. I do not think he likes marzipan. Then he says, "I just want this day to be over."

I nod.

"So let's talk to the mortals _now_ instead of delaying like this," says Erestor firmly.

I look sadly at my pudding. "All right."

I suppose I could put my foot down and say that I am not going to move until I've finished eating, but if Erestor wants the day to be over, the least I can do is help him finish it on a positive note.

Erestor and I advance towards the mortals. As we are doing so, Celebrían comes sidling over, looking very casual and mildly annoyed. She smiles brightly at us. "Lord Glorfindel, Lord Erestor, could you two perhaps explain why I cannot open the door to the infirmary?"

Erestor appears startled by this new information. "You cannot open the door?" he asks. He glances at me in a very pointed way.

The key to the infirmary suddenly feels very heavy in my pocket. "Er, I locked the door, Lady Celebrían," I say guiltily.

"You _what_? Is my husband in there?" demands Celebrían.

"Yes."

"With Lindir?"

"Yes, Lady Celebrían."

Celebrían looks at me, her head tilted to the side. "May I ask why?"

Immediately I suffer from an inopportune moment of incoherency. "Well, you see, er, Lord Elrond– "

"We did not want to worry anyone unduly by mentioning this,"explains Erestor calmly, "but Lord Elrond accidentally drugged himself."

"Really," says Celebrían flatly. She crosses her arms and glares at us.

Erestor and I realize something. We exchange a brief, horrified look, and then say, in unison, "_We_ did not drug him!"

Celebrían smiles that bright, annoyed smile. "I agreed to help you with your little revenge, but I did not agree to let you drug my husband."

"But we didn't!" I say. "He drugged himself! He was making a sleeping draft for Lindir, and then he accidentally drank it."

"You expect me to believe that? Elrond would not make such a silly mistake," says Celebrían. "And why did you lock the door?"

Why _did_ I lock the door? I can't remember. I panic quietly.

"He locked the door so that Lindir would not escape and cause even more mayhem than he has already," says Erestor. _Thank you_, Erestor. Thank you thank you thank you.

"Yes, that's why I locked the door," I say.

Celebrían gives us both a skeptical look. She holds out her hand, and I give her the key. "When Elrond wakes up, I'll ask him what happened," she says, "so if you would like to confess to anything right now, you may."

We shake our heads, subdued. I can't believe she suspects us of drugging our lord! That would not be proper. He's the one Elf we _didn't_ drug.

So much for Erestor's day ending on a positive note...

TBC


	12. Some Solutions, Some More Problems

**Traditional Recipes for Disaster **

**by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor **

**Disclaimer: **Neither of us own anything pertaining to _Lord of the Rings_. This story was written for entertainment, and not for money.

**Author's Note: **This, it would seem, is the second to last chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

**Erestor.**

My mind is whirling as Lady Celebrían walks away. How could she suspect _us_?

How could she suspect _me?_

This is quite possibly an even worse discovery than that of Lord Elrond's plan. It is one thing for my lord to try to trick me into working with an annoying associate, but another for the Lady to suspect me of outright treason and disloyalty! I would _never_ think of drugging Lord Elrond… after all, I swore my service to him when I was named chief advisor. Even more than that, Lord Elrond is one of the only people who knows everything—well, almost everything—about me, and still seems to think that I can be trusted. I would no more think of drugging him than I would think of drugging my own mother.

Lindir is another matter. He is annoying and nosy. I would drug Lindir, but I would _never _drug Lord Elrond. The idea is simply… staggering.

And to think that Lady Celebrían believes that I would really do it, and then _lie_ to her about it…

There is no adjective in Sindarin or Quenya to adequately describe how I feel about that.

Glorfindel takes advantage of my temporary stunned disbelief to reattach himself to his dessert. He seems unsettled by this turn of events, but not remarkably so.

Is Glorfindel ever remarkably unsettled about _anything_?

He polishes off the pudding, then reaches for the marzipan and pops a green bunch of grapes into his mouth. "I can't believe that she would think that," he says.

I swallow and sit down in a nearby chair. I need to sit down. "I suppose that what we were told as Elflings is true."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Sit still and stop making faces at the tapestries?"

"No, not that," I say. My parents never had to tell me to stop making faces at tapestries. Tapestries are inanimate objects, unable to register or respond to communication. I can, though, imagine a young Glorfindel squirming and sticking his tongue out at a wall hanging, and the mental image is slightly amusing. "I mean, that those who lie will never be believed, even when they tell the truth."

"Ah." He takes a marzipan strawberry and munches on it contemplatively. "Well, if I had to find a moral for our situation, that one would serve as well as any." He reaches for an apple. "Are you sure you don't want anything to eat, Erestor? You haven't eaten all day."

I eye the marzipan warily. I remember one evening when my brother smuggled a whole handkerchief full of the sweets out of a banquet hall. We ate marzipan in his room until we were nearly ill, and I have never cared for it since. "No thank you," I say.

He shrugs and eats the last marzipan fruit, a rosy peach. "It looks like the traders are finished."

I look over, and sure enough, the mortals are conversing among themselves, looking around to see what is supposed to happen next. I stand. "Come, then. The sooner we negotiate this treaty, the sooner they can leave."

"You're so friendly tonight," he comments dryly.

The mortals seem comfortable with Glorfindel—or, at least as comfortable as any mortal could be when confronted with the merry grin of a reborn Balrog-slayer who has had too much marzipan and pastries—but they regard me with caution. I think they expect me to say something else completely nonsensical.

Glorfindel takes a seat next to them, greets them in their language, and then says something that I cannot understand. A few of the mortals look at me, snickering, and I feel heat rush into my face. What is Glorfindel saying about me?

He turns to me. "The traders wish to discuss modifications to the rice treaty, they say. A drought has damaged their ability to grow rice, and they need to ask a higher price until there is enough to feed them as well as us."

I frown. The price for our rice imports is ridiculously high as it is. "What do they want?"

He turns back, converses with them, and then names me a price. My eyes widen. "Lord Elrond would _never_ accept that offer. Tell them that it is outright robbery."

He hesitates. "Erestor, they say that they _need_ the higher price to feed their families."

"They are getting too much as it is. Imladris can only give so much. If they wish aid, they can wait until Lord Elrond wakes and ask him. We are _not_ going to raise the price that we pay for their rice." I sigh. "Besides, traders have been known to exaggerate their stories to strike a better bargain. Do not believe everything they tell you."

He frowns. "Why do we trade with them if we don't trust them?"

"Because _someone_ has an unnatural love of rice pudding with his breakfast, and we cannot grow rice in the stables," I say darkly. "They are usually honorable traders, though, once the bargaining is done and an agreement is made. It is during the negotiations that we must be watchful."

"Whatever you say," he says uncertainly, before relaying my message to the traders.

I relish a small moment of triumph while the traders discuss this new development. Whatever I say, indeed.

Glorfindel talks with them, then turns back to me. "They say that they can afford to accept a lesser rise in the price, but they have to have _something_." He lifts an eyebrow. "What do you say?"

I shake my head. "Tell them that they will not get a single more gold coin than they get already." When the mortals begin to look unsettled, I add, "And that if there is trouble, we can find other sources for rice."

Glorfindel dutifully relays the message, then returns with, "They say that they need the money _desperately_."

"Then they can take their rice to another settlement. Tell them that we have found another colony of rice farmers that asks even less for rice than they already do. There have been no droughts there."

"Have you really?" asks Glorfindel.

"Yes."

The traders look panicked, and they converse hurriedly in their quasi-Westron before answering Glorfindel. "They say that they will do anything to keep our trade routes open."

"Then tell them that we will pay our current price, and no more."

Glorfindel gives them the message, and the leader looks relieved. One of them fires off a string of words that sound rather impolite, but when he is faced with a glare from both his leader and Glorfindel, he falls abruptly silent.

"Shall we consider it done, then?" I say.

Glorfindel talks and then turns back to me. "They say that they are content, and they will take your message back home."

I smile. "Ask them if they wish us to send a squadron of warriors to assist them with recovering from the drought."

The mortals, startled, decline vehemently.

"Very well, then," I say, smiling at them.

**Glorfindel.**

Erestor looks pleased. I suppose he must be happy that a trade agreement has been reached so quickly and conclusively. As for me, I am trying not to imagine the poor traders and their families languishing beside their dried out rice paddies.

Maybe their tale of woe was true, but then, maybe it wasn't. Erestor knew what he was doing.They seem glad that we're still doing trade with them, even though their price has not changed. They promise to bring the usual amount of rice at the usual time, now that everything is worked out. Then they announce that they are leaving.

"Would you not like to stay the night here?" I ask. I think a few of the mortals have eaten too much of Meretheryn's almond pudding. I hope they don't need medical attention, since Lord Elrond is not here to give it to them.

"No," says the spokesman. "We'd rather not." He shoots an annoyed and nervous look at Erestor, who smiles smugly. He may not know the language, but I think he has a very good idea of what is going on. "We'll leave tonight," finishes the trader.

"All right," I say.

Erestor and I walk the mortals to the door and say our farewells. When Erestor isn't looking , I hand them a small wall ornament as a memento of their stay. The traders stumble off through the darkness to find their horses and carts.

"That went very well," says Erestor, as happy and satisfied as I've seen him. Then his expression changes drastically as he spots Lady Celebrían advancing towards us. I cannot quite describe the look on her face, but I do think she appears a lot like her mother at this moment.

Celebrían jabs her finger at Erestor, and he takes an understandable step back. "You– you _poisoner_!" she says fiercely. "My husband is completely insensible, and it would seem that he has been given a _double dosage_ of his most effective sleeping draft! You cannot tell me that he drank such a potent mixture in a moment of mental abstraction!"

Now that he is the one under attack, Erestor seems unable to say anything to defend himself. The amount of shock in his expression would convince _me_ of his innocence, but Celebrían just continues to rant at him.

"He was going to give it to Lindir," I interject. "Then he drank it accidentally." 'A moment of mental abstraction' describes it well, though.

"Why, then, did he double the amount of ingredients necessary?" Celebrían is furious. She brandishes the infirmary key threateningly in my face. "And why did you lock the door?"

"I don't know why he doubled the ingredients," I say, quite calmly, "but Lindir was being very... energetic, and he probably wanted to make sure Lindir was well-rested. How can a humble warrior understand the mind of a healer?"

I think this sounds very profound. I glance at Erestor to see what he thinks of my explanation. Unfortunately, I can't be sure if he liked it or not, since he continues to look absolutely horrified by our lady's accusation. The poor Elf's day must be getting worse and worse.

Celebrían's eyes are sparkling –with anger, I think– and she is glaring at the two of us, obviously unpersuaded. She turns back to Erestor, which seems somewhat unfair to me, since he looks about ready to keel over in a dead faint. "You have shown yourself to be capable of poisoning people, Erestor," she says firmly. "After drugging Lindir, why would you draw the line at Elrond? And perhaps you have poisoned others...?" She glances at me idly.

Erestor is stricken. He just stands there, his eyes very wide, dithering in distress.

"Lady Celebrían, I know that Erestor would not drug Lord Elrond," I say. "Even if he did, he would not lie about it. Lord Erestor never lies."

Erestor practically whimpers in relief. Celebrían is smiling brightly again. "Perhaps you did the deed, then, Lord Glorfindel, since Erestor is above all this?"

I am prepared for the question. "I know nothing about herbs, Lady Celebrían, and I was never very angry with Lord Elrond anyway."

"Erestor?" she asks.

He looks up. "Yes, Lady Celebrían?" he replies, anxiously.

"Did Glorfindel drug anyone?"

Erestor shakes his head. "Oh, no, Glorfindel didn't drug anyone."

"And he wouldn't have drugged my husband while you weren't looking?"

"No," says Erestor, with reassuring conviction. "Glorfindel wouldn't drug Lord Elrond."

"Well, then, it seems that both of you are innocent." Celebrían looks delighted, like she didn't want to prove us guilty. "But I think that perhaps you should both be careful about getting revenge on people, in the future. And don't let _too _many Elves in on your plans."

She glides away, leaving two stunned Elves in her wake. Erestor sinks down into a chair and puts his head in his hands. He takes a few deep breaths.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like anything to eat now?" I ask him.

TBC


	13. Playful Banter

**Traditional Recipes for Disaster **

**by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor **

**Disclaimer: **Neither of us own anything pertaining to _Lord of the Rings_.

**Author's Note: **Due to some confusion between **Ithiliel Silverquill** and I (but mainly me, I think), the last chapterhas beenpostponed.I'm fairly sure that_ this _chapteris the second to last.

**

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

**Erestor. **

Breathe, Erestor. Breathe in, breathe out. Deep breath, let it out. Concentrate on breathing.

"Erestor, did you hear me?" I can feel Glorfindel tapping me on the shoulder. He frowns. "Are you all right? You look pale."

I shake my head. "I am fine."

"You don't _look_ fine," he says. "Did you hear me?"

I blink. "Did you say something?"

Glorfindel sighs. "That's it. You're going to sit down and have a good meal and a glass of wine. Come on." He grabs me by the sleeve and starts marching toward the dining hall.

"But, Glorfindel…" I start to protest.

He is undaunted. "You need to eat something, Erestor. You look like you're about to faint."

I try to ignore the people that stare at me and Glorfindel as he drags me down the hallway. "I am not going to faint," I say, trying to reassure him. "The last time I fainted was when I was twenty years old, and I have not even come close to it since."

He drags me into the dining hall and pushes me into a chair. "Sit."

I try to glare at him as he tells Meretheryn to bring me a bowl of stew and a glass of wine, but to be honest, I do not feel like glaring.

"Now, what's this about fainting when you were twenty?" says Glorfindel, taking a seat opposite me.

"It was all the fault of my brother's friend Ossendur," I say. "He kept the largest, most fearsome animal in Ost-in-Edhil, and failed to inform me of that fact until I was face-to-face with the beast." I shudder at the memory. "I thought that he and Nin were doing something fun without inviting me, and when I climbed over Ossendur's family's garden wall to see what they were doing, I met that animal at the same time that I met the ground."

Glorfindel lifts an eyebrow. "What was it, a dragon?"

"No." Valar, he is going to laugh at me so much when I tell him this. "It was a dog."

Contrary to my expectations, he only lifts an eyebrow, instead of bursting out into uncontrollable laughter. "It must have been a very large dog, if you fainted when you saw it."

"I had never seen a dog before. I had read about them, but our family never had one, and neither did anyone that lived nearby. The sudden realization that I was staring into the face of this humongous, fanged, slobbering animal was too much for me. I fainted on the spot."

"Is that why you're afraid of dogs?" he asks.

"I am not…" I begin, but I falter when I remember that huge canine face so close to my own, and its horrid breath. I might as well tell the truth. "Yes."

"It didn't harm you, did it?"

I sigh. "No. My brother explained to me that it was actually a very good-tempered dog, and Ossendur even offered to let me keep one of its puppies to raise as my own. I politely told him that such a gift was not necessary."

"Why do I imagine that those were not the exact words you used?"

I shrug, a small smile creeping onto my face. "Well, I _was_ only twenty."

We are interrupted by the entrance of Meretheryn. She walks in with a generous portion of steaming stew and a glass of ruby-red wine, and sets both in front of me.

I try to be as polite as I can. "Meretheryn, to be honest, I really…"

"…need to eat," she finishes, fixing me with a look that dares me to defy her. "You barely touched your stew at dinner, and you're thin as a twig as it is. Eat before you starve yourself to death."

I sigh. "Thank you for your concern, but I…" I catch the look on her face and quickly modify the ending of the sentence. "I think the stew needs a bit of salt."

She chuckles and leans against the doorframe. "The stew is salted, Erestor, and cool enough to eat, and I left out the onions when I made it. It's not going to poison you."

I manage a weak smile. _Why_ did she have to mention poison? "Thank you."

She chuckles and walks away.

I stir the soup and look up at Glorfindel. "You were saying…?"

"Nothing important," he says, shrugging. He chuckles. "Well, this has certainly been an eventful day, hasn't it?"

I take a bite of stew and frown at him over the bowl. "That is not the word that I would have used… but yes, it has been eventful." I picture the furious look on Lady Celebrían's face and flinch inwardly. The Lady is a kind and gentle-natured woman, but she has the same dubious talent that Lady Galadriel has: when she wants to appear fearsome, she _can_. "Very eventful."

**Glorfindel.**

I watch Erestor eat his soup. He looks tired. His frowns are becoming more and more pathetic, until he gives up frowning at me altogether, and simply concentrates on finishing his one good meal of the day.

Actually, I think it's nearly tomorrow morning by now.

I can't believe how many things have happened today. This morning seems so long ago. I vaguely remember Elrond's door; I discovered that the twins had chewed on it. I snatched Erestor's Nolendil book from him. I read Erestor's letters. I scared Erestor half out of his mind when I came to retrieve my pen from him. Erestor ranted, apologized, plotted, and then drugged both Lindir and I in one fell swoop. He failed to communicate properly with the traders, but (with my humble assistance) managed to deftly handle an unusual situation.

Then Celebrían turned up and thoroughly interrogated the two of us. Was she trying to complete Erestor's transition from scholarly advisor to nervous wreck?

I sigh. When I look at Erestor again, he is all slumped over in his chair. At first I think he's dead. Then I think he's going to drown himself in his own stew.

I prod him, and he looks up and blinks at me. "I think you should go to bed now," I say.

Erestor favors me with a half-hearted glare. I smile. Your glares were much more intimidating this morning, Erestor. Back then, you reminded me of the balrog that managed to kill me.

"If you don't go to bed now, then you'll fall asleep in here, and I shall be forced to carry you to your chambers," I tell him.

Erestor wakes up rapidly. This time his glare is far more sincere.

Things aren't about to go back to normal, Erestor, not even if you want to cling to the past.

"I'm too lovable to be glared at continually," I say, and he smiles at me. Erestor's smiles are scarier than his glares, by now. When he smiles, I know that something bad is about to happen to me.

"Perhaps _you_ should hurry to bed, Glorfindel," he says, "before you babble more nonsense. You will only embarrass yourself."

"I don't babble nonsense," I say, offended.

"Oh, I am sorry. What _do_ you babble, then?" asks Erestor sweetly.

I don't hesitate. My pause is only due to the moment I take to thank the Valar that Erestor is half-asleep and only relatively dangerous. This done, I say, "I don't babble."

"I suppose what you say must sound very wise to you," comments Erestor. "Not like babbling at all." He's getting the vague, nearly dreamy look that means he's enjoying himself. This must be his idea of playful banter. Nasty little cut-tongue.

I simply love it when he reminds me that he could dance verbal circles around me.

Erestor suddenly loses the dreamy look and jumps to his feet with startling agility. "Oh, Valar! I have forgotten the invitations to Greenwood!"

"Were they important?" I ask, somewhat bemused.

"Important? Of course they were important!" cries Erestor. "And I entirely forgot about them!"

Tsk, Erestor, I wonder why? Maybe it's because you've been... oh, I don't know... drugging people?

Erestor scampers out of the dining hall, a rather familiar expression of panic on his face. I follow him. I'm not tired, and I want to see what he's up to now.

Erestor is heading to his rooms, where he keeps all his inks and papers, but when he sees Lady Celebrían wandering casually down a hallway in front of him, he screeches to a halt. I bang into him, and he hits the floor with a painful _whumping_ noise.

"Are you all right?" I whisper, helping him to his feet and yanking him through a doorway as Celebrían glances in our direction. I hope she didn't see us.

"Just a few broken bones, that's all," says Erestor, fairly calmly for someone who's just been hit by a Balrog-slayer moving at a high velocity. Then he says, "I have to give the invitations to Lord Elrond tomorrow! I have not yet finished them!"

"I don't think Elrond will have been woken up by then," I say reassuringly.

"Oh yes..." Erestor remembers.

"Do you remember the wording of the invitations?"

"Of course. And what I cannot remember, I can rewrite," says Erestor.

"I have some paper and ink in my room," I say, "if you'd like to write them there."

"Very well," says Erestor.

We walk through Imladris without further encounters with Celebrían, and when we enter my chambers, Erestor raises his eyebrows in surprise.

I remember that he's been here before.

"I... er... I cleaned it up a little," I say, going to my desk and pulling out all the stationery I possess.

"Indeed you did. I can see the floor now."

I roll my eyes. Valar spare me from more of Erestor's playful banter.

"Here. Is this what you need?" I demand, plonking the papers and inks on the desk.

Erestor picks up the paper, and rubs it between his fingers. I hope he likes the quality. It's good paper, even if it is about seventy years old. "Yes. This will do," he says. "But I need a pen."

Oh.

"You don't have any with you?" I ask. "I thought you carried pens with you."

"No," he says. I think he's realized too, because he glances at the Valinor pen out of the corner of his eyes. The white plume looks more beautiful than ever. He averts his gaze to the floor when I glare at him.

"If you like– I mean, since you need a quill, you can borrow mine," I say rapidly.

He looks up, eyes a little wider. "Your pen?"

I pick it up and hand it to him. "You won't damage it," I say. "It's time someone put it to use."

Things have definitely changed.

TBC


	14. The End of the Day

**Traditional Recipes for Disaster **

**by Ithiliel Silverquill and Erestor **

**Disclaimer: **Neither of us own anything pertaining to _Lord of the Rings_.

**Author's Note: **

Sorry for the delay! **Ithiliel **and I have been writing frantically, and thus this chapter is very hot off the press. We hope that you enjoy it. It's a bit longer than usual. :)

This is to the reviewers. Thank you for every comment you wrote; your input and constructive criticism has been greatly appreciated by both of us. We never expected to get so many reviews, and we've been delighted by all of them!

The two of us will be back. We enjoyed co-writing, and we plan to write more stories together.

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**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

**Erestor.**

I stare at the quill in my hand. The beautiful white quill, so white that it looks almost luminous against my hand. I cannot believe it.

"Thank you," I say to Glorfindel, almost reverently. I simply cannot believe it. He was nearly catatonic when I borrowed it earlier, but now he just handed it to me?

Something is different.

I uncork a nearby inkwell and dip the pen, then begin the invitation. It is a formal invitation, but that only makes it easier because formal invitations always say the same thing. Informal correspondence is difficult because it always has to be something "personal," different every time.

Glorfindel ambles away from the desk and flops on his bed, obviously worn out. I cannot help noticing that the sheets are not quite straight, but I will not mention that fact. He made an effort, and for now I will leave it at that.

I suppose my clean room inspired him.

I finish the first draft of the invitation, then start at the top again and reread it.

Glorfindel looks up. "Erestor? What are you doing?"

I frown and mark through a word. Surely a synonym would make that sentence clearer. "Proofreading."

"Why? It's just an invitation."

"It is a formal communication between Imladris and another realm."

He shrugs. "They probably don't even read the whole thing. They probably look at it, say 'Oh, look, we're invited,' and then toss it aside without another thought."

I sigh and look up at him. "That is not the point, Glorfindel."

"Then I fail to see the point."

"The point is that this is an important correspondence! What if one of King Thranduil's advisors reads it and considers it second-rate? The honor of Imladris rests on the small things as well as the large ones."

He blinks. "So what you're saying is that you think that some advisor in Greenwood is going to take that invitation, read every single word, and base his entire judgment of Imladris on your word choice?"

I scowl. "Not really, but it never hurts to be thorough." I mark through a sentence and rewrite it off to the side. "Besides, this is work that Lord Elrond wants me to do, and I want to stay in his good graces." As if I have any hope of that, after today.

"Oh, come on, Erestor. Elrond isn't shallow enough to throw you out because you worded an invitation wrong. It's not like the Elves of Greenwood speak the traders' Westron or anything."

I pause in my writing and turn to glare at him. That barb was unnecessary.

"Besides, I can't imagine that Thranduil's advisors would think that your writing is second-rate anyway," he continues, rubbing his eyes.

I blink. Was that a compliment? Did Glorfindel actually pay me a compliment? I must be too tired to hear correctly.

I recopy the invitation onto another piece of paper and read it over again. Nothing _looks_ out of place. On a whim, I turn to the golden-haired Elf still flopped on his bed. Said golden hair is going to get excruciatingly tangled if he leaves it loose like that when he sleeps. "Glorfindel? Would you mind reading this over for me?"

He looks up. "Pardon?"

"Would you mind reading this over for me?" I hold out the invitation, and he takes it. "My mind wanders when I get sleepy, and I want to make sure that I said nothing stupid."

He raises an eyebrow. "You want _me_ to proofread _your_ work?"

"If you do not mind."

"Not at all." He scans the page, reading a few sentences aloud under his breath, then finally shrugs and looks up at me. "It looks fine to me," he says. "If I were Thranduil's advisor, I wouldn't be able to find anything wrong with it."

"Thank you," I say, rubbing my eyes. "I only have to make a few copies of it, then."

He sets the letter on the table, then frowns at me. "Erestor, you look like you're going to fall asleep in that chair. Why don't you just finish those in the morning?"

I shake my head. "They have to be to Lord Elrond tomorrow."

"Elrond is reading the backs of his eyelids right now, I think. I don't think he'll be able to read anything you wrote for quite a while."

Glorfindel is starting to look a bit… blurry. Odd.

"But Glorfindel…" I say. Why does my voice sound slurred? Was it the wine? I did not even finish the glass Meretheryn gave me…

The rush that I got upon realizing that I had left a duty undone is rapidly slipping away.

Glorfindel is starting to look very, very blurry.

**Lindir.**

My first plan of escape has met with disaster. Or, to put it less dramatically, it has met with failure. Dismal failure. Painful failure. I am never again going to attempt to break down the door using nothing but my own momentum. Infirmary doors are very strong, and very hard.

I may have severely injured myself.

I stand in the infirmary, rubbing my bruised elbows, trying to get my addled wits to cooperate with me. Whatever Erestor did to me, it wasn't pleasant. I cannot remember anything, but I had the strangest dreams, and now I have the awfullest headache.

I purse my lips, thinking about Lord Erestor. He must be the most persnickety, priggish, problematic Elf in Imladris. He hates my beautiful works of music. He hates _me_. I have heard, from reliable sources, that he once threatened to strangle me with my own harp strings.

Lord Erestor does not appreciate Art.

I suffer from another spell of dizziness, and am forced to sit down, casting wary glances in the direction of Lord Elrond. Who knows when he will awake? Who knows when he will revive and strike me down with sleeping drafts?

The Valar, in their immeasurable goodness, have cast Lord Elrond into a deep sleep, and I must seize this opportunity to flee.

Lord Elrond groans. I freeze. I stop breathing. Then I creep, cautiously, silent as a cloud in the sky (if clouds in the sky creep), skirting the bed in which my lord reposes.

I have been locked in the same room as Lord Elrond for quite some time. The room is the infirmary. This is my test. Unwitting Lord Elrond in the infirmary is like unwitting a warg in the forest. If I can escape, if I can survive the horrors of this dread room, then truly I shall be the hardiest harpist in history, and many songs will be sung in my honor, even if I have to sing them all myself.

My nerves are stronger than mithril, my will is unbreakable.

I put Plan Two into operation.

Hearing voices outside the room, in the gardens, I snatch up a large vase from a table and drop it out the window. The Elves below look up at once, and I wave my arms frantically at them, appearing like a bird who cannot take to the air because his feet are stuck to an icy pond. I hope they can see me in the darkness.

"Is that Lindir?" I hear them ask, their tones oddly worried.

"Yes! It's me!" I hiss, not wanting to awaken Lord Elrond. "Come and get me out of here before Lord Elrond drugs me unconscious for life!"

"The rumors were right; he _is_ mad," says one Elf.

"I hope Lord Elrond can cure him," says a maiden, more kindly.

"Why? So he can write more songs?"

"I rather liked a couple of them."

"They were atrocities to the Elven language."

They are ignoring me, and my dire plight!

"Help!" I yell. "Save me! I'm locked in this room with Lord Elrond! I tried to batter down the door, but I just hurt myself! You must help me!"

The Elves shake their heads sadly and wander off, leaving me to my fate.

Ah me, life is cruel. When I get out of here, I shall write a song about helping harpists when they are in distress. Surely if people followed such a code of conduct, this world would be a happier place.

I had one good dream, poisoned though I was by Erestor. I dreamed that I was getting the attention I deserved, for once, as I stood on a table and performed before all of Imladris. They loved it! I had not one interruption, until Lord Glorfindel came jumping out of nowhere and dragged me away...

...such a lovely dream...

Suddenly I realize. It was not a dream! It happened! Lords Erestor and Glorfindel drugged me with something that made me go mad! No wonder those Elves seemed so anxious for my well-being.

Oh, Eru, why must I suffer so? Why hast thou thus afflicted me? I am indeed a hapless harpist, persecuted by those who hate me without reason.

Lord Elrond stirs again, and I sink into a chair, stricken, and simply wait, though for what I wait, I do not know. I am filled with despair. My reputation is ruined. I shall be mocked wherever I go.

I am wrenched from these black thoughts by the sound of voices at the infirmary door. Someone has come to my aid! Some worthy person has become concerned by my disappearance, has taken pity on me!

"Give the key to me, 'Ro. I can reach the door."

"No! I want to do it!"

"Well, you can't. Give it to me!"

"I'll stand on your foot if you snatch, Elladan."

"You can't stand on it. It's broken. I'll tell Mother if you cripple me for life."

The key scrabbles in the lock, but the Elflings' efforts are ineffectual. It seems that Elladan and Elrohir are to be my saviors.

"Do you fink he'th dangerous?"

"Nah, probably not. He's not _very_ mad. And stop lisping."

"I can't help it. I'm thcared."

"Whyever for?" Elladan sounds scarily like Lord Elrond.

"Becauthe he'th mad."

"You want to see what a mad person is like, don't you?" asks Elladan in his 'reasonable' voice.

"Yeth."

"Well, then, since we missed what happened at dinnertime, we have to come and let him out, if we want to see what a mad person."

I listen to this conversation with great interest. What are the twins expecting me to do? They'll be disappointed to find out that I've recovered from my fit of madness.

At last the door opens. Elladan sticks his head around and looks about. He's evidently more worried than he's let on. "L-Lindir?" he asks.

"Hello, Elladan."

Elladan whirls around and stares at me. Elrohir comes creeping into the room next, wide-eyed, holding the key in one hand. "Are you _mad_, Lindir?" he asks.

"Alas, no. I am perfectly sane, Elrohir." I wish I was mad. At least when I was mad, I was entertaining people.

They look both mildly disappointed and mildly relieved at this announcement.

I stand up and strike a tragic and longsuffering pose. 'Thank you very much for unlocking the door."

"You're welcome, Lindir," says Elladan. Suddenly he catches sight of Lord Elrond. "What's wrong with Father?"

"He is getting some much needed rest," I explain.

"He lookth dead." Elrohir's eyes are very big, and he rams his fingers into his mouth and sucks soberly on them.

"He'th – he's not dead." I hate the way Elrohir's lisp is catching. "He's just sleeping."

"Oh."

"We should all go away very quietly and not bother him any more," I continue.

"All right," they say in unison, and together we sneak out of the room. I shut the door, and lock it with Elrohir's key.

"Why are you locking him in there?" asks Elladan perceptively.

"So that no one will blunder in and disturb him," I say.

Elladan wrinkles his nose at me, and then hobbles down the hallway, looking as tragic and longsuffering as I ever could.

I meander calmly down the hall in the opposite direction, until an Elf-maid shrieks, "Aaaah! It's Lindir! He's escaped!"

At once about seven overprotective males come leaping to save her from the Mad Elf of Imladris.

My reputation has obviously preceded me.

There is only one thing that can be done in such a situation.

I turn and run for my life.

**Glorfindel.**

Erestor seems more and more tired every moment I look at him. He blinks a lot as he writes out the next invitation, taking painstaking care over each and every letter. Poor scholar.

I lie on my bed, marveling over how different it feels now that the sheets are in the right place. I think I must have gotten used to all the lumps. I take my quilt, yank it off the bed, wad it up into a ball, and plonk it down in a nearby corner.

There. Much better.

I glance over at Erestor, just in time to see him slowly tilt forward. His head knocks against my desk. I hope he hasn't damaged it, or the invitations he was writing. Or my pen. Or his head.

I get up, yawning, and walk over. I take the pen out of his hand. I slide the invitations away from where he might accidentally brush over them and smear the ink. Each letter is a work of art. I can't believe he feels that he has to spend so much time and effort over something like an invitation. Perhaps the Elves in Greenwood frame the invitations they receive from us. I doubt it, though.

Erestor doesn't look very comfortable, but I don't want to move him, because that would wake him up. He's obviously exhausted. If I wake him up, he might be cross.

I locate the book about the _Most Curious Striped Horse_, find the spot where I left off, remove the fork, and start reading again. Very interesting stuff here.

After a while, I look up again, and see Erestor staring at me. "You are reading," he says wonderingly.

Oh dearie me, Glorfindel is reading: the world is about to end. Valar help us all.

"Yes. I am indeed reading. And you're awake." If this is a stating-the-obvious competition, I'm determined to win it.

"Yes." Erestor looks at me. He's still in shock. "Yes, I am awake."

"I think perhaps you should go back to your bedroom."

Erestor gets to his feet, and droops against my desk, rather shamefacedly. "I should. I apologize for intruding on you, and then falling asleep in your chair."

"Don't worry about it. I'm glad I was able to provide you with the materials you needed for your invitations."

"Yes, thank you."

We look at each other. I find that I like Erestor a lot more than I did this morning.

"I was wondering..." I pause, smile brightly at Erestor "... er... would you lend me your Nolendil book?"

"What?" Now Erestor really thinks the world is going to end. He's gone slack jawed with amazement.

"It sounded very engaging."

Erestor recovers somewhat. He smirks. "Really? Now, let us see. What did you call it this morning?"

_...without a doubt the most uninteresting book in all Imladris..._

We both know, but Erestor leaves the words mercifully unsaid. "I'm very sorry," I say. "Honestly I am."

Erestor nods, believing me this time.

"Did you really feel tortured today?" I ask, because this was something I'm curious about.

"I may have been exaggerating slightly," admits Erestor. "But only slightly," he adds, before I can start feeling too proud of myself for not torturing him.

"Well, that's good," I say.

Erestor picks up his invitations, blows on the ink a little to dry it, and then stacks the papers neatly. "You can borrow the Nolendil book," he says, "_if_ you promise not to use it as a paper weight or a door jam."

I blush slightly. "I promise."

This touching moment comes to dramatic and abrupt conclusion as we hear screams and yells in the hallway. I, for one, am certain that we are under invasion, and so I leap for my sword. Erestor drops his papers on the floor. We both hurry to the doorway and look out.

Lindir dashes by, a look of extreme worry plastered on his face. He is being chased by at least a dozen denizens of Imladris, who seem excited by the drama of it all.

"Catch Lindir! He's mad!" yells an Elf as he gallops past.

"Help us, Lord Glorfindel! He could be dangerous!" shouts another Elf.

Someone tackles Lindir, and they both crash to the floor. Lindir valiantly fights him off, scrambles to his feet, and sprints away.

Erestor and I stare, first at the pandemonium in the hallway, and then at each other. Then I collapse against the doorway, laughing until tears trickle down my face. Erestor stares at me too, one eyebrow raised, which just makes me laugh harder.

We're all insane... oh Valar, we're all insane...

By the time I can see Erestor again, he's laughing too. It's a sight more surprising than that of Lindir being chased down the hall. I didn't think Erestor could laugh.

I rub tears from my eyes. "Right. Are you ready to go to bed?"

Erestor snorts. "Not quite. I want to see what happens to Lindir."

So do I.

The two of us leave my room and run down the hall. We can tell where Lindir is, due to the amount of noise he and his pursuers are making. It sounds as though an entire wall is in the process of being knocked down, there are so many thumps and crashes.

I am faster than Erestor, understandably, but Erestor has Strategy.

"He will double back this way!" pants Erestor, gesturing in the direction of another corridor.

"You sure?" I ask, halting for a moment.

Erestor nods.

We lie in wait for Lindir.

Quite shortly, Lindir comes staggering up the hall, looking half dead on his feet. The other Elves are clattering about in the distance.

I am so glad the mortals left before all this.

We leap out. Lindir recoils. I grab him by the shirt. Lindir pretends to faint, but Erestor and I are not fooled. We lug him towards the nearest hall closet. Lindir opens one eye, sees were we're heading, and panics. Erestor and I somehow manage to hold on to the struggling harpist.

We shove him into the closet, and I fling myself against the door and hold it shut while Erestor gets the key. He locks the door.

Lindir says things about being a poor, suffering harpist.

I mention that he's also insane, and that he should be locked up, since he is potentially dangerous.

Lindir says that he will get revenge on us.

Erestor and I agree that if he tries to do anything to us, we will crush him forever.

Lindir says we aren't being fair.

Erestor tells him that we're being very fair. He tells him this in a very threatening way.

Lindir falls silent.

Erestor and I grin at each other. I remember when I thought that some time in the hall closet would greatly improve Erestor. I feel happier with Lindir in the hall closet instead.

We walk leisurely to Erestor's bedroom, ignoring the sounds of Lindir's hunters tearing Imladris apart to find him. Erestor finds the Nolendil book and hands it to me, with a warning look. "Remember," he says, "you must not use it as a door jam."

"I won't."

Erestor yawns, and rubs his eyes.

"See you in the morning," I say.

Erestor smiles. "Tomorrow is another day," he says.

I walk back to my bedroom slowly, fatigued from my hard day's work.

_Tomorrow is another day. _

Was that a threat?

**Celebrían.**

"But Nana, I want to stay up longer. I want to see them catch Lindir!"

I kiss Elladan's forehead. "No more of that. You need your sleep. You want that ankle to get better, don't you?"

He frowns. "How will the ankle get better by sleeping?"

"Just trust me," I say. "Naneths know best."

He still looks unconvinced, but he obediently settles under the sheets.  
Elrohir is already curled up into a little ball, clutching his stuffed dog. He blinks at me. "G'night, Nana."

I smile. "Good night, Elrohir. Sleep well."

I blow out the candle and step out, shutting the door behind me.

The hall is quiet now. Mercifully quiet.

I tiptoe to Erestor's door and open it, then peek inside. He is sound asleep, curled up almost like Elrohir. I look around the room, then sigh and walk in. Why does Erestor always leave a candle burning? It's a good thing that I always check on him. He would probably have set his room on fire by now, were it not for me.

I puff it out, then spare a moment to smile down at him. His eyes are closed. He must have been extremely tired… and no wonder. But I think it is worth it, and he has learned his lesson about plotting against Elves.

I leave Erestor's room, continuing toward the healing chambers, and then pause when I reach Glorfindel's door.

Ah, so Glorfindel cleaned his room. Wonderful. I was beginning to wonder if I would have to speak to him about it, but he has done it for himself. I am glad to see him taking the initiative.

I go back out into the hall, closing Glorfindel's door quietly so as not to wake him. He looks worn out too. But he should be happy… I heard him laughing with Erestor earlier.

The sound was music to my ears… the sound of triumph.

I walk to a nearby closet and open the door, then smile at Lindir as he tumbles out.

He comes out looking murderous, but then when he sees me, his face goes through a series of rapid changes: disbelief, then fear, then embarrassment. "My lady," he stutters, his melodious voice sounding quite unmelodious. "I can explain…"

I put up a hand for silence. "I don't want to know, Lindir. Just go to bed."

He blushes and looks at the floor. "Yes, Lady Celebrían." He turns to walk away.

"Oh, and Lindir?" I call.

He turns. "Milady?"

I smile sweetly. "Don't listen at doors. It's rude. Especially if the plan does not involve you." I close the closet door. "You really don't want to get involved in these things. I hope you are aware of that now."

He gawks at me, speechless.

I smile again. "Good night, Lindir."

I can barely hear his voice behind me as I walk away. "But… but how did you… ?"

Elrond is still asleep when I reach the healing chamber, as I had planned. His sleep is not that harried, fitful sleep that it has been for weeks; he is sleeping deeply and soundly.

Everything worked out exactly as I planned. Erestor and Glorfindel are friends, Lindir has learned the consequences of being nosy, my boys will be rid of the negative influence of Glorfindel and Erestor's squabbling, and Elrond will have a good, long sleep.

And it all started with a subtle hint… ah, the power of persuasion.

I walk over to the window, then smile in the direction of Lothlórien. I can almost hear my mother's voice, laughing along with me. She was right.

Never underestimate a lady.

**The End.**


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